


Cosmic Love

by plaguedbynargles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Astronomy, Awkward Conversations, Awkward First Times, Bullying, Consensual Sex, Demisexual Jim, Demisexual Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Smut, Friendship, Hate to Love, Healing, Humor, Insecurity, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Soulmates, Suicidal Thoughts, Telepathy, Trust Issues, characters watching glee, probably crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-07 22:14:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 39
Words: 167,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plaguedbynargles/pseuds/plaguedbynargles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soulmate AU. In a world of 7 billion people, it is only a lucky minority that manage to find their biological soulmates. A single touch of skin to skin, and suddenly they are Marked forever, sharing a psychological Bond that can result in anything from sharing emotions to mind reading. Sherlock Holmes has never given finding his Soulmate much thought, and it is definitely among the last things on his mind when he arrives on the rooftop of St. Bart's to face off against his arch nemesis, Jim Moriarty. However, upon shaking hands with the criminal on the rooftop, something happens, and afterwards, rooftop snipers are the least of the detective's problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to try my skill at writing multiple stories at once. I'm a fool. I know. But a Sheriarty Soulmate AU was too good to pass up. I don't have this planned out in its entirety, so we'll see how it goes!

               “Oh, just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort.”

               The way the man in front of Sherlock said the words was so matter of fact, so noncommittal, that for a brief moment the detective wasn’t sure he was speaking to a consulting criminal at all. The phrase and the logic behind it were so simple minded, so mundane, so _prosaic_. The words hit Sherlock in the gut, and he only had to wonder for a brief moment why they disturbed him more than anything else he'd heard in the past months.

               Jim Moriarty didn’t say things like that. Jim Moriarty was eloquent. He designed puzzles and crimes like an architect, building a structured web that no one, save for possibly Sherlock, could translate and understand. But _this_ …this phrase was something the detective could have heard from anyone; a schoolmate or a stranger. It was anonymous, utterly _stupid_ , and coming from James Moriarty, that made it all the more terrifying. The consulting criminal had murdered a child because he had _laughed_ at him, and now he was telling Sherlock to kill himself? The detective was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had overestimated Jim. And if so, how had he still managed to be so remarkably outwitted? Sherlock could feel himself coming apart at the seams; thoughts splitting and dividing like cancer cells as he tried to _think_ , simply think, and calculate his next move.

               “Go on. For me.”

               There had to be something. _Something_ that he had overlooked. Was he simply overthinking? Had Sherlock come full circle—thoughts scrambled enough from excess of knowledge that he was, in reality, of average intellect? Jim was waiting, watching his every panicked move with what the detective could only imagine was deep satisfaction, and Sherlock could feel the pressure pushing down on him, heavier and heavier until he had to gasp for breath.

               “Pleeeeeeasseeeee?”

               That did it. The detective, on a basic, primal impulse, did the only thing he could think of as a plausible option at the moment. Sherlock grabbed the criminal by the collar and swung him out over the roof’s edge, giving him a semi satisfying shake. As long as they were behaving like children, the detective supposed, this was perfectly appropriate behavior. He only felt more frustration, however, as Jim stared up at him glassily with an infuriatingly convincing bored expression.

               “You’re insane,” Sherlock panted. There were many insufferable people in the world, he supposed. In his life he had always been surrounded by stupidity, ignorance, and general ineptitude. It had always vexed him, and there had been times he’d wished—no, he’d borderline _prayed_ , for someone, _anyone_ , who was different. Now that he had it in front of him, in the form of this twisted, alien mind that was Jim Moriarty, he understood a bit why people tended towards normalcy. He’d known he was different, but _this_ …this was madness personified.

               “You’re just getting that now?”

               The detective couldn’t risk another, harder shake; this was quickly becoming too much. He could feel himself getting _angry_ at Jim, and could barely enjoy the criminal’s startled exclamation and scrambling hands through his disgust. It was almost a moment of humanity, seeing the man startled; off guard and panicked. Only further proof to Sherlock that Jim was ordinary—he wore a mask of algorithms and complex crimes but when it came down to it, it was all for destruction. He didn’t possess _true_ intellect; only what he needed to further his own agenda.

               The detective’s blood went cold for a moment as he wondered if, perhaps, Jim saw him the exact same way.

               “Okay,” Jim looked almost offended as he glared up at the man holding him, “Let me give you a little extra incentive.” Sherlock felt like he was in a play as he listened to the criminal talk. This was a script, only one actor had come to the final performance unprepared. “Your friends will _die_ if you don’t.”

               Briefly, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. This was such a cliché that he felt almost disappointed in the criminal. This sealed it. Jim was ordinary. He was a common lunatic and Sherlock had been a fool, a desperate fool, to think he’d actually found an adversary worth acknowledging. All he’d done by playing Jim’s games was ensure a fate for himself that, if he’d stayed isolated, would never have emerged. The detective’s anger was quickly turning into a wave of crushing, familiar depression. _This monster is actually going to beat me._

“John…”

               “Not just John,” Jim clarified, ever the storyteller, “Everyone.”

               “Mrs. Hudson-”

               “ _Everyone_.”

               “Lestrade.”

               “Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims,” Jim breathed, “There’s no _stopping_ them now.”

               He was excited. Sherlock could see that. At least, when he’d started the speech it had looked that way. Now the criminal’s eyes looked strangely empty; like he’d wanted to see a different reaction from his favorite toy. The detective wasn’t sure what Jim had been expecting to see on the face of a man who was about to sentence either himself or his friends to death.

               _He played me like a fiddle._

Now, Sherlock thought, Jim really _did_ look disappointed. His dark eyes searched the detective’s face for something, and for a blink, the criminal looked more forlorn than Sherlock would have ever thought possible. He seemed oddly heavy, suddenly, and when the detective pulled his adversary away from the edge, he felt hot breath on his face.

               “Unless my people see you jump.”

               The criminal tugged his suit down curtly, and continued to watch Sherlock, whose mind had suddenly gone mysteriously quiet. Jim was breathing heavily, and from the corner of his eye the detective could see a grin of triumph slowly fade, in what once again looked almost like disappointment.

               “You can have me arrested,” the criminal continued his onslaught, “You can torture me. You can do anything you like with me, but nothing’s going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. _Unless-_ ”

               “I kill myself. Complete your story.” Sherlock finished. _I get the point_ , the detective wanted to say, _I understand it, just shut up, please. I know you’re winning._

               Jim nodded, looking proud of himself and invading Sherlock’s space again, “You’ve gotta admit that’s sexier.” The detective could smell aftershave, the two were so close.

               “And I die in disgrace,” Sherlock clarified, defeated.

               “Well, of course. That’s the point of this,” the criminal said matter of factly, as though they were discussing something other than suicide. The detective ignored Jim’s gaze on him, despite its ever present weight. Ever since he had walked out onto the rooftop, it was as though he carried two massive rocks on his shoulders, black like the criminal’s eyes. “Oh. You’ve got an audience now,” he continued casually, “Off you pop. Go on.”

               It was so disappointing, Sherlock thought, that all their games were ending in such an unspectacular way. That it all was ending like this. So many cases were unsolved. There were so many things he had never said to John. Even his rivalry with Mycroft seemed trivial, now.

               “I told ya how this ends!” Jim continued taunting as he stepped out on the ledge, “Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. I’m certainly not gonna do it.”

               “Would you give me one moment, please? One moment of privacy?” Sherlock asked, swallowing his pride, “Please?”

               There was a short pause, and he could perfectly picture Jim’s smirk, without needing to look behind him, “Of course.”

               As the detective’s eyes searched London’s skyline, he marveled at the criminal’s babbling. It was like he was high off of his own success; so pleased with himself that he was actually repeating things. Though Sherlock supposed Jim wasn’t exactly the criminal mind he’d once thought, so this wasn’t so surprising.

               Unless he _was_ , and simply had a weakness for bragging.

               Sherlock grinned, feeling hysterical laughter bubbling up inside of him. Jim was revealing the flaw in his plan and he didn’t even realize it. Though that was the problem with genius, he supposed. It needed an audience and where there was fame, it was all too easy to get cocky, and careless.

               “What?” the criminal exclaimed, incredulous. To the detective’s satisfaction, he sounded slightly concerned. “What is it?” Sherlock turned around and gave him the biggest, smuggest grin he could muster. “What did I miss?” Jim shouted, volume increasing.

               With a hop, the detective removed himself from the ledge and took a step towards his adversary, “You’re not going to do it?” he repeated, strutting towards the disbelieving criminal, who stood there and blinked, “So the killers can be called off then. There’s a recall code, or a word, or a number,” Sherlock started circling him, and Jim remained silent, clearly uncomfortable, “I don’t have to die if _I’ve got you_.” He sing songed the last part, giving his opponent what he hoped was a taste of his own bitter medicine.

               “Oh,” Jim laughed cruelly, “You think you can _make me_ stop the order? You think you can make me do that?”

               “Yes,” Sherlock answered simply, an eerie idea developing within his mind, “So do you.”

               “Sherlock,” the criminal started condescendingly, “Your big brother and all the king’s horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to.”

               “Yes, but I’m not my brother, remember?” the detective breathed, now face to face with his enemy once more, “I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to _burn._ Prepared to do what ordinary people won’t do. You want me to shake hands with you in Hell? I shall not disappoint you.”

               Jim paused, and Sherlock knew he had caught the criminal. Jim wanted a perfect adversary, but that was also the one thing preventing him from completing his plan. By telling him what he wanted to hear, Sherlock was ensuring that he remained ‘not ordinary’, and therefore worth keeping alive. The detective had spent the discussion marveling at how ordinary his opponent truly was—perhaps the criminal had intended that. Perhaps he had been _trying_ to distance himself, to convince himself that boredom was truly an unavoidable thing, that he was alone. Now _why_ he would want such a thing was beyond Sherlock—

               “ _Just kill yourself. It’s a lot less effort._ ”

               Hm. Did Jim have a death wish? Was Sherlock the last thing tethering him to life? Was it possible for someone as egocentric as Jim to _feel_ something like the call of the void? The detective was no psychologist, but until this point, he hadn’t assumed that the criminal was capable of feeling anything. If he felt some sort of…connection with his favorite toy that made life worth living to him, then a suicidal man would try to distance himself from that connection—in their case, convincing himself that Sherlock was nothing special.

               Slowly, doubtfully, Jim shook his head, “Nah…you talk big…nah...You’re ordinary. You’re ordinary. You’re on the side of the angels.”

               _There it is_ , Sherlock thought smugly.

               “Oh, I may be on the side of the angels,” the detective said, “but don’t think for one _second_ that I am one of them.”

               The words were delivered like lines from a play, and Sherlock could tell from the change in the criminal’s facial expression that they had hit their mark dead on. Slowly, as though he was seeing his nemesis for the first time, Jim searched the detective’s face, mouth falling open slightly as he realized exactly what he wanted to.

               “…No,” he said quietly, “You’re not,” slowly his lips twisted into a smirk, and the criminal nodded slightly, still gazing up at Sherlock like he was a hero, “I see. You’re not ordinary…no. You’re me…” almost unconsciously, he leaned towards the stony faced detective, a hysterical wheeze of laughter escaping him as he examined this suddenly far more interesting toy, “You’re _me_ ,” Jim repeated gleefully, “Thank you!”

               Sherlock fought to keep his eyes fixed on Jim’s as the criminal brought a hand to his shoulder, barely enough so that the detective could feel him through the thick wool of his coat, and, after looking at it in confusion a moment, brought it back to his side.

               That was…strange.

               “Sherlock Holmes,” Jim whispered, holding out a hand, still watching the detective as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Sherlock considered not completing the gesture—the criminal had proved that he wasn’t above playing dirty, so who was to say he wouldn’t try to pull something?

               However, after a moment of indecision, he decided to give into the curiosity that was suddenly crackling inside of him. Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock extended his hand to meet Jim’s. The detective took a brief moment more to hesitate, with their hands mere centimeters apart, before he finally clasped them together.

               For a few seconds, there was nothing. In fact, the gesture was so simple, so finite, so _mundane_ that Sherlock felt, in spite of himself, a tiny twinge of disappointment; even Moriarty shook hands, just like anyone else did. Jim’s palms were cold; even more so than his own, in fact. The detective didn’t have time to think of anything else before it hit him.

               Washing over him like a wave, the pressure was instant and more extreme than anything he’d ever felt before. His skull felt like it was being caved in from all sides, it felt like he was being electrocuted and kicked in the stomach and set on fire all at once. Sherlock _couldn’t breathe._

               With a useless gasp, the detective dropped Jim’s hand like it was a hand grenade, stumbling back a few feet and still struggling to draw in a breath that satisfied his lungs. He should have known. He should have _known_ that the criminal would pull something! Sherlock’s skin was crawling and prickling and _warm_ like someone was sticking him with thousands of needles, and the hand that had touched Jim’s felt like it had been submerged in boiling water.

               _Drugged. Injection probably._ _Get away from him, gain the upper hand before he makes his move; before you’re too sedated to fight!_

Clumsily, the detective blinked his quickly blurring eyes, and foolishly tried to shake his head to clear it. Sherlock was lucky he hadn’t eaten anything that day, because he was unable to stop himself from dry heaving a few times before he was able to somewhat get his bearings again.

               Dizzy, suddenly exhausted, and with breath coming in short gasps, the detective fell to his knees. One shaking arm holding his body up, and one pressed against his throbbing head, Sherlock summoned all of his willpower to force himself to look up. If he was going to die, he was going to fight until the end.

               The only bit of comfort the detective experienced before he blacked out came from a simple observation, and that was Jim Moriarty lying sprawled on the pavement, unmoving, a few feet in front of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you thought?


	2. Falling Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *dances out from the shadows* Guess who's back (back), back again...

               Sherlock groaned, blinking blearily as he regained consciousness. The first thing he noticed was the pain. For a brief moment, there was nothing, making the detective wonder if he’d imagined how poorly he’d felt after the handshake. But then, like surfacing from underwater, it all came rushing back. His skull throbbed and it felt like something was taking his brain and _twisting_ it, as impossible as that was. Sherlock was used to injuries, but this pain was like something he’d never experienced before. It was all consuming; although he knew the ache originated in his cranium he found it hard to imagine any of his body was at all functioning properly. The only thing that kept him from passing out again was the burning, uncomfortable, prickling sensation in his right palm—the one he’d so foolishly touched to Jim’s. For some reason, this was the pain that helped him stay alert, perhaps because it was so different from the rest. Sherlock squinted at the brightness of the sky, and it made his head throb.

               _“You’re me.”_

Jim Moriarty’s last, haunting words echoed through the detective’s mind as memories of his previous situation started to come back to him. He’d met his nemesis on a rooftop, considered jumping to his death to save his friends, passed out after shaking hands with the criminal mastermind…

               Alarm shot through Sherlock’s veins like a drug, and his head snapped over to where Jim had fallen. There was no one there. Had he imagined it? If Moriarty wasn’t here, then where was he? And what did that mean for John…?

               _John. Shit._

               The confused detective stumbled to his feet, and barely caught himself before tumbling to the ground again. His _head_. Sherlock had had headaches before, including migraines, but this was something else entirely. Coupled with the dizziness, nausea, and mysterious sense of anger that also plagued him, it was clear that there was something very, very wrong with him. He closed his eyes, leaning up against the structure he had originally caught himself on, and tried to get his bearings. He didn’t have time to vomit; Sherlock needed to get to John. Or find Jim. Whichever came first.

               The headache, dizziness, and nausea suggested a concussion. It was possible, the detective supposed, that he had hit his head on the concrete when he’d fallen. That was enough to do it, but he didn’t remember falling that hard. His head had suffered far worse, and nothing had happened then. No, this was probably poison of some sort. He didn’t have time or the energy to consider what type it might be. It would certainly explain the burning in his hand. Hopefully it wasn’t something that attacked the nervous system, though the tingling didn’t do anything to ease _that_ worry. But what purpose would that serve Jim? He’d seemed to have borderline scripted the rooftop encounter so that Sherlock would jump—so why poison him? Of course, Jim had also ended up on the pavement, so that could rule out poison…unless there was something he was missing. There was always _something._

The detective shook his head. John would know what was wrong. He’d set this straight.

               _“Friends protect people_.”

               Sherlock was disgusted with himself for being such a prick to John, earlier. That could have been their last conversation, and it would have included the doctor calling him a ‘machine’. The fact depressed him.

               Another, more violent, pang of anger, no, _fury_ , snapped Sherlock out of his musing. How _dare_ John call him a machine? John was the ordinary one. He was _glad_ he hadn’t jumped to save the doctor. John didn’t _deserve_ to-

               _What?_

               The detective shook himself mentally. Was he having a mood swing? His emotions surely couldn’t be _this_ out of control. He wondered if that hinted towards concussion, as well. He sorely wished John was here to offer a diagnosis. He’d had no _reason_ to feel so angry. Just a minute ago he’d been melancholy and now he felt…panic. Again, it could be poison, but Sherlock was too scramble brained to think about what kinds of poisons might cause mood swings.

               Suddenly, the detective’s breath hitched, forcing him to gasp for air like a fish out of water. Piercing through him like a thousand shards of glass was cold, unrestrained fear. There was something wrong; Sherlock wasn’t feeling this way. Well, he _was_ , but _wasn’t_ at the same time. His head _hurt_ … _God_ , it felt like it was getting worse…

               The detective raised a palm to press against his throbbing cranium, and froze.

If he’d been alarmed before, he was now what could only be described as terror stricken. Sherlock’s palm shook as he held it in front of him, mouth falling open as he _prayed_ he wasn’t looking at what he thought he was. _Surely_ not…

               There, right in the center of his right palm, was a mark. It was simple, yet intricate, and shone like melted silver on his pale skin, glinting in the sunlight. The only shape Sherlock could hope to reasonably compare it to was a crop circle—albeit one of the more complicated ones. Hadn’t John showed him an article about that sometime? It extended out across his hand until just reaching where his fingers started, making it look like a strange, geometric spider web.

               It…looked like a Mark.

               Throughout his life, the detective had watched as other people found their Soulmates. Most never found them, and made due with Unmarked relationships, but, especially when he’d aged past 20, it had seemed as though everyone around him had found their Soulmate. Though, he supposed that could have been simply because those who _did_ find their Mates were especially loud about it. Dimly, Sherlock remembered hearing that only 20% of people found their true Soulmates _and_ stayed with them. Many who weren’t ready to commit arranged to illegally break the bond, some murdered their Mates for an escape, and some committed suicide. It wasn’t unheard of for some poor soul to accidentally bond with a lunatic or a sadist, and be unable to cope with their new shared madness.

               Sherlock looked to the ledge in front of him, and wondered if he would fit with any of those groups.

               Assuming he’d never find a Mate had become normal to the detective. Mycroft still didn’t have his, and neither did, Sherlock realized, most of the other people he knew. Mrs. Hudson was the only person he could think of who had ever Bonded, and she was luckily out of that, now. The landlady had been lucky enough to have a weak Bond; not so risky to break as a strong one. There had been a time he’d thought John would be his Mate, but that had long passed. Sherlock had tried not to think about it—he knew the odds of a successful Bond were one in…well, several billion, but the doctor had been the only person he’d ever _desired_ a Bond with. Sally Donovan and Anderson, despite being Unbonded themselves, still were eager to remind him of his lonesomeness every chance they got.

               And _now_ …now what? Sherlock had deleted most of the other information on the subject. Even in high school, when they’d gotten the mandatory ‘talk’ about it within the course of a 45 minute class period, he hadn’t thought it would be relevant or important to his life. Were these symptoms he had side effects of being Bonded? If so, he hoped they would go away soon, or else he couldn’t imagine how someone would live their entire life with them.

               No, he shouldn’t say that. This would not last a lifetime. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind. Not the sort who Bonded, romantically or platonically. He was a psychopath, for God’s sake! But there _were_ incidents reported where people like that found Mates... Or perhaps this was all just a ploy to get him to jump. Perhaps Jim thought the mere premise of being his Mate would be enough to make him kill himself. All he had to do was drug Sherlock and trace a design on his palm. Not overwhelmingly difficult. The detective rubbed his thumb against the Mark, testing this theory, but quickly abandoned the task. He could figure out exactly what was wrong with him later; what was important now was whether or not Jim had called his snipers off.

               Hands still trembling slightly, Sherlock gritted his teeth as he touched John’s name in his contacts, fighting to ignore how close he was to passing out again. The doctor mercifully answered after only one ring.

               _“Hey, I’m just headed-”_

“John, listen closely,” the detective cut his friend off impatiently, “I need you to get inside, and get away from any windows. Call Mycroft and-”

               _“Wait, what? Sherlock, are you okay?”_

“Moriarty has gunmen on you and….” Sherlock had to pause to get his bearings, “…and he’s got them on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, as well.”

               _“What? Sherlock, what happened? Where are you-?”_

“I’m on the top of Bart’s Hospital. I don’t know where Moriarty went, and I’m not sure how likely it is that they’ll shoot. So just take Mrs. Hudson with you and get somewhere safe. I’ll call Lestrade and… _shit!”_ The detective hissed as a fresh wave of pain, stinging and white hot, roiled through his Marked hand.

_“Why the Hell-? Are you alright-? That’s it, I’m coming up there.”_

“NO! John, listen to me. He will kill you. These are trained snipers and they will shoot you without a second thought. Get to safety.”

               _“Sherlock…_ ” John’s voice sounded pained, and it was all the detective could do not to give in.

               “Just do it. I’ll be back soon.”

               Before the doctor could object, Sherlock hung up, suddenly feeling anxious. Whether this was another mood swing or just a reaction to his current situation, he wasn’t sure. He’d initially considered going after Moriarty, but it was clear that, in his current state, that wasn’t a good idea.

               A thought popped into the detective’s head, increasing his nausea and making him gag a few times. Despite this, he decided to act on it, praying to every deity he knew didn’t exist that he was, just this once, incorrect.

               _7:26_ , the clock on his phone read.

               Sherlock did some quick mental math. His last text with Jim before the rooftop had been at around 7. If that allowed for the time taken to get to the rooftop, plus the time they’d spent talking, that meant he’d been unconscious for about three minutes.

               Even assuming Moriarty had faked his apparent black out, how on Earth would he have time to draw or otherwise place the symbol on Sherlock, with no errors or imperfections, and still have time to make a getaway?

               It was…highly illogical. But he didn’t have time to think about this. Sherlock had to find John, and he had to phone Lestrade.

               The detective gingerly took a deep breath, fighting down the nausea that gripped him as he did so, and willed himself to walk. He made sure to hold his phone in the hand that had the ‘Mark’. Whether it was real or not, he didn’t need people stopping him in the hospital to ask if his Mate was alright. If a Bond was too strong, breaking it could be lethal for both partners, so if he waltzed straight through the hospital looking sick as a dog…well, it would be a nuisance, to say the very least, even if the Mark was fake.

               _Somehow_ Sherlock managed to get himself to the street, nicking some bandages from a hospital cart on his way out. The detective hailed a cab, and barely managed to spit out a tired “221B Baker Street” at the cabbie before passing out again.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Oi! I said, you alright?” a concerned voice was the first thing Sherlock heard when he came to. Mercifully, his head didn’t hurt _quite_ so badly this time, though it still felt worse than most headaches he’d ever had before. The pain on his Marked hand had receded a bit as well, so that now it felt like his palm had gotten a bad sunburn, rather than actually being on fire.

               Good. Progress.

               “Fine,” the detective snapped at the driver, taking out his phone and pressing Lestrade’s name.

               _“…Sherlock?”_ an apprehensive Gavin answered him.          

               “Yes, I know,” Sherlock said impatiently, “There’s not time to talk about whether you can trust me or not. You’ve got snipers on you so get somewhere where they won’t be able to target you-”

               _“What the bloody Hell are you going on abou-?”_

“You’ve got snipers on you! Get somewhere safe!” the detective glared at the cabbie, who had glanced over his shoulder nervously at the word ‘snipers’.

               _“…Tell me you’re joking. Sherlock, this is mental…where are you?”_

“I’ll call you when it’s clear,” he snapped, not bothering to address Garrett’s babbling. Another thing done; now he needed to check his hand.

               First, Sherlock brought his palm to his nose, taking a quick sniff. He still felt out of it, but that shouldn’t have prevented him from smelling any trace of ink. Shaking his head, he moved to the next theory. Perhaps Jim had used something non scented. Though if it was non scented, likely it wasn’t going to rub off just with his hands and saliva. He’d have to wait until he got back to 221B to examine it further. If it _was_ a Mark, he’d need to contact the network to hook him up with a doctor as soon as possible. The detective didn’t know much about Soulmates and the Bonding process, but he had a hunch that the sooner the bond was severed, the better.

               That is, if it was there in the first place. He would have to google symptoms of being Bonded when he got back. That should clear it up.

               A wave of revulsion washed over Sherlock, and it took all of his willpower to keep from dry heaving. So much for feeling better. Already, he could feel the pressure in his head increasing and his Mark heating up, burning and tingling like it was being stabbed with a thousand needles. He gritted his teeth against the unpleasant sensation, starting to wrap the stolen bandages around his Marked hand. Just a precaution, of course. It wouldn’t do to have John panic and start fawning over him while he tried to assess the situation. The best thing to do was to just get home, lie down, and do a quick few tests. Then he could worry about Moriarty.

               Everything was fine. Sherlock was in control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Miss me? I’m sorry about the wait, but I’d like you to know that this fic is definitely #not dead. Don’t worry friends. As soon as I finish writing Black Ice updates will become much more frequent! Leave me your thoughts? Reviews make writers squeal and grin at their computers like idiots. Trust me, this is science.


	3. Orbit

               The second a spark of consciousness lit inside Jim’s mind, it ignited him into action. He was suddenly wide awake; every nerve in his body active and ready to respond at the slightest possibility of a threat. The criminal was already on his feet before he saw that Holmes was lying on the ground in front of him, seemingly dead to the world. All of this happened in the course of a few seconds, before the pain hit, making Moriarty bite his lip to keep from making a sound.

               God, his fucking head hurt. Not to mention his hand. What the _Hell_ was Sherlock playing at? Jim hadn’t seen a syringe, so that eliminated the possibility of poison injection, but then why did his hand hurt so badly? His palm burned and tingled in a strange but painful combination of what felt like sunburn and pins and needles.

               Actually…there was one explanation that made sense.      

               Slowly, Moriarty lifted his right palm, spreading his fingers. They stood out starkly against the backdrop of London, but what really captured Jim’s full, undivided attention, was the silvery Mark that seemed to have twisted and curled its way from the center of his palm, extending all the way to the bases of his fingers.

               The criminal felt a sudden urge to vomit. _No_ , this wasn’t happening. This _wasn’t how it was supposed to be_. Sherlock was supposed to die. _Jim_ was supposed to die. But now if Jim shot himself, Sherlock could die while unconscious. Oh, no, that wouldn’t do. It had to be done _properly_. Jim wanted to see Sherlock awake, in front of him when he died. He’d been so _close_. So _close_ to escaping this godforsaken Earth, and now the whole damn plan was ruined. Because now he couldn’t die shaking hands with Sherlock. Now Moriarty would never get that chance again. Because now, he and Sherlock Holmes were _Mated_.

               This was wrong. This was all wrong. Jim wanted to scream and cry and take a knife to this fucking Mark and _cut it out_ of him. He needed it _off_. This was weakness. This wasn’t how he’d wanted to know Sherlock Holmes. Holmes was a threat. A beautiful, perfect threat. And Jim needed to maintain that relationship. Not one where they would want to be around each other constantly. Not one where he’d have to _talk_ and _comfort_ and do pathetic _ordinary_ things with the detective. That wasn’t how this worked. _God_ , Jim was so _sickened_.

               Maybe…maybe he could sever the Bond. It had been what? A minute? He’d only been out for 30 seconds at the very most. Jim was no expert on the medical aspect of Soulmates but perhaps, given how recently the connection had developed, it could be worn down and eventually broken. Usually, new Soulmates had to stay ridiculously close for the first 24 hours or so after their Bond first developed, to allow it to mature and form correctly. But if Jim ran, if he avoided Holmes, the Bond would never have a _chance_ to mature. Maybe it would eventually become frail from the lack of contact, and break. It was all a matter of waiting, but if there was one thing Moriarty was good at, it was that. He would bide his time and start planning a new game; a new way out for both himself and Sherlock. But right now, that had to be put aside.

               Sherlock would likely be waking up at any moment, which meant Jim had to _get out_ of there, and fast. Without another moment’s hesitation, the criminal started towards the door to get onto the rooftop, taking his phone out of sleep mode as he did so. He’d send a text to Jo, tell her everything was off. No sense causing a fuss for no real reason.

               Jim winced as he made his way down the ground floor of the hospital. _God_ , it felt like his headache was getting worse. He actually felt a little bit nauseous, now that he thought about it. No matter. He’d had far worse. Far, far worse.

               _Everything is off. –JM_

               Approximately half a second later, a reply came.

               _Alright, Boss. –JA_

Alright. That was taken care of. Jim didn’t doubt that she’d tell the others about it—such things were a part of being the mastermind’s second in command. Now he just had to get out of here and… _fuck_.

               Suddenly, the pressure on Jim’s head seemed to increase tenfold. The criminal wheezed at the sudden pain, and he was thankful this hallway was empty at the moment. There were only two more he needed to walk down before he was out. He could handle this. He could handle…

               Moriarty mentally cursed again as another wave of pain hit him. He had to swallow the bile that rose in his throat and bite his lip hard enough that he tasted iron to keep himself from showing how much it affected him. Was Sherlock waking up? Was that why he kept feeling worse? If so, he was running out of time quickly. Otherwise, if this was just the bond breaking…well, at least it was breaking.

               Jim wiggled the fingers on his right hand, trying to ignore the fact that, as his headache got worse, the burning of his Mark was also getting more intense. It was difficult to bear, but Moriarty could see the door he was looking for, which would lead him out the back of the hospital. He could step into an alley and get to one of his more remote flats, wait out the breaking of the bond. If worse came to worst he could always arrange to have it broken illegally, though that would be a last resort. The idea of having his mind in the hands of an ordinary person was…unnerving.

               Finally, the criminal reached the door, slipping out into the crisp morning air and promptly into an alleyway. He had hoped that the cold air might help his headache or the burning in his hand, but no such luck. Instead of disappointment, however, Jim felt…alarmed. His heartbeat hammered so that he could hear it in his ears, even above the noises of morning city traffic. Moriarty was so confused…he couldn’t think…everything was so disorienting.

               What was happening to him?

               Shaking his head, the criminal decided it was better, in his current state, to catch a ride with Jo than to drive himself home. He leaned against a wall, the dizziness that was starting to cloud his vision and weaken his legs winning out over his love of Westwood.

               _Require assistance. B81. –JM_

Moriarty watched the screen for 5, 10, 30 seconds, growing two parts panicked and irritated for each one that passed. Where the fuck was Jo? Did she think that because the job was off that she didn’t need to bother watching for texts? Anger flared up in Jim’s chest as he waited another 15 seconds. _This_ was how his second in command acted? Was this a fucking sabotage?

               The criminal winced as the pain in his head intensified once more. It felt like someone was taking his brain and _stretching_ it. He bit his lip, suddenly afraid. He needed to get out of here. Jim was weak; exposed. This was dangerous.

               But if Jo wasn’t answering, who was to say his other two favorites would? He’d trusted Jo to tell them the operation was off, and if he couldn’t trust Jo now, he certainly couldn’t trust anyone that’d been fed information by him. If he texted them, then all three gunmen would know he was vulnerable. And that simply wouldn’t do. No, Jim was much better off getting help from one of the new recruits. One that had the tales of all Moriarty had done fresh in his mind. They would be less likely to cross him.

               On a whim, the criminal hit Sebastian Moran’s name. Hastily, and fighting to stay conscious through the throbbing pain in his head, he typed out a message and hit send before slumping back against the wall.

               _Require assistance. B81. –JM_

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian’s head snapped over to where his phone lay, heart thumping loudly. He forced himself to take a breath. It wouldn’t do to be nervous for his first real job with Moriarty.

               A few years ago, Sebastian had received a Dishonorable Discharge from the United States military. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t been the one to start the drunken brawl—all that mattered was that his opponent had ended up dead at his feet, bleeding out onto the dirt floor as Sebastian passed out into an unknown soldier’s hands.

               It had been the worst night of his life. Sebastian had regretted it every single day since it happened and yet, there was absolutely nothing he could do to take it back. The douche had had it coming, but the courts didn’t care about that. All they knew was that one man had ended up with a knife in his stomach, and Sebastian had been the one to put it there. So he was discharged. It didn’t matter that they’d all been shocked at how young he’d completed training, or how much he’d exceeded expectations until that point. It didn’t matter that sniping was the only thing that _really_ came naturally to him. They’d kicked him out; a 19 year old with no high school degree, no other experience, nothing but the clothes on his back.

               What was a man to do, in that situation? Sebastian had spent two months homeless, in the sweltering heat of summer, swatting mosquitos away from his arms as he tried to sleep and daydreaming about a time when things had been simpler. At home with Mom and Dad, before he’d learned that it wasn’t normal for your parents to make you feel like you were worthless, like nothing about you was good enough, and then say they love you a few minutes later. He’d left his air conditioned, suburban home at 18 and never looked back. Well, until he was discharged. That changed everything.

               Jobs were a thing of daydreams for Sebastian during that time. How much would he have loved to snag a part time shift at McDonald’s, or Home Depot, or even a Barnes and Noble. But it just so happened that most places weren’t interested in hiring ex army snipers that only showered twice a week and didn’t have the money to buy a suit for an interview.

               Most places.

               One night, as Sebastian lay awake, swatting at bugs as usual, he’d overheard a whispered conversation. The sort of thing that, before the army, would have made his hair stand on end. Now, it just gave him something to focus on other than the rumbling in his stomach.

               _“I told you! 30 bucks a gram, no less.”_

_“Man, no one’s got the shit to pay for that!”_

_“Then no one’s getting any crack tonight!”_

_“Fuck off, I need this.”_

_“If you needed it, you’d have the fucking money to pay for it.”_

_“But-”_

Sebastian heard a very familiar sounding click.

               _“Woah woah woah, I don’t want no trouble…”_

 _“Any other night I’d just wait for you to leave,”_ the dealer said, _“But tonight, I can’t deal with your shit. Back the fuck off.”_

_“Are you still gonna deal or-?”_

A shot rang out, and Sebastian heard someone running. He’d just begun to wonder what would make a dealer chase away their customers until he heard a voice, shockingly close to where he lie.

               _“That was embarrassing to watch.”_

Sebastian heard the dealer turn to face the newcomer, _“Sorry you had to see that.”_

_“No problem. I needed a laugh. Still can’t find any new recruits for you know who.”_

_“Damn, I’m sorry, man.”_

_“Yeah, according to Danny I’m definitely gonna be sorry if I can’t get any soon. You got my money?”_

_“Yeah…”_

There was some rustling. They had a _lot_ of dough. No wonder the dealer had been nervous.

               _“Thanks man. You know the drill.”_

_“Haha. Of course I do.”_

_“This guy sleeping or what?”_

Sebastian’s heartbeat spiked. He heard footsteps coming closer to where he lie, and had to fight to keep his eyes shut. If he was ‘sleeping’, maybe they would leave him alone.

               He mentally uttered a long string of profanities when a shoe kicked his side. Unconsciously, he held his breath, waiting for his fate to be decided.

               _“I say shoot him. Who’s gonna miss him?”_

_“Yeah, who knows how much the cops are paying these days to any bum who’ll-”_

Sebastian heard the click of a gun again, and shot upright, making his inspector jump back about a foot.

               “Shit!” the man cursed loudly, quickly regaining his bearings to narrow his eyes at the ex army sniper, who, still on his knees, had his hands up above his head.     Sebastian took in the scene in front of him. The dealer, who stood a few feet away, wide eyed, didn’t look older than 15. Though admittedly there was a glint in his blue eyes that made him seem at least a little bit formidable. His hair was blond, standing out against tan skin that made him look like a stereotypical California surfer. The other man, the one who had taken the money, was still pointing a gun at Sebastian. His dark skinned hands were steady, the former sniper noted with disappointment, and he appeared tall enough that, if both of them stood up, he’d still have a few inches on Sebastian. Damn. The kid would have been probably easy to disarm and take out, but now that the two of them were in the equation…Sebastian didn’t think if this came to a fight that it would go his way.

               “How much did you hear?” the black asked smoothly.

               Sebastian kept his voice steady, “Enough to know you’re recruiting.”

               “Oh,” he grinned, clearly amused, “That so? Lemme tell you, friend, this is probably not your sort of job.”

               “I’m an ex army sniper,” Moran blurted out.

               The gun was lowered, “What’s your name, sniper?”

               Sebastian hesitated, not sure whether or not to use his real name. He supposed Moran wasn’t such an uncommon name. And it wasn’t like he cared about whether or not he brought shame onto his parents.

               “Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, sir.”

               “Hear that, Taylor?” the black turned to face the young dealer, “This one calls me sir. A common bum’s got better manners than you.”

               The blond only glared at Sebastian in response, as though having manners was _his_ fault.

               “Tell me, Sebastian,” he turned back to the former sniper, “You a man of the law?”

               Moran hesitated again, “I,” he said slowly, “am a man who will obey the highest bidder.”

               “That’s what I like to hear.”

               Sebastian’s first hit had taken place a week later, and that had been the start of his decent into crime. Or, should he say ascent. He was definitely living more comfortably than when he’d had no home at all. Carefully, he’d made his way up through the ranks, and eventually had determined that the center of crime was currently living in London. London, of all places! However strange it had sounded at the time, Sebastian had saved his money and moved across the Atlantic as soon as he could. He had already been high on the ladder at this time—certainly not near the top, but close enough that he noticed he stopped seeing his boss’s faces so often. Eventually, he’d stopped seeing them completely, and had started to hear whispers about Moriarty.

               His names were many. To some he was just ‘M’, to others he was ‘The Magpie’, to some he was ‘The King’, and, finally, to the lower ranking, he was just ‘You Know Who’. According to some, he had bombs planted in every major government building on Earth. Others said that he lived in a mansion in the countryside, with a personal staff of over 200 slaves. A few went far enough to say that if you paid him enough, he’d hook you up with your own nuclear warheads. Moran thought this was all rubbish. If there was one thing Sebastian had learned while working his way through the criminal empire, it was that fear was used to keep people from moving up. He took no head of these rumors, and perhaps that was how, eventually, three months ago, he’d found a letter shoved under his door, offering a position.

               Sebastian hadn’t known precisely what he was signing up for when he had returned the message to the suggested location. He certainly hadn’t expected to instantly be put under, gagged, and tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. The former sniper had gone through interrogation after interrogation, to which he’d always answered the same question, “Where does your loyalty lie?” Eventually, he’d learned that the right answer was ‘Moriarty.’

               And so, finally, after months of test jobs and interrogation, at age 21, Sebastian was…in. He’d done a few small hits for Moriarty already, but was still waiting to get assigned something bigger, and this…this could be it, he realized.

               _Require assistance. B81. –JM_

He read the code with ease. In the months he’d spent preparing for employment with the criminal mastermind, he’d been given a series of codes he needed to memorize. Nothing in them really stood for anything—they just each had an individual, specific meaning, which was what made them so hard to decipher. They each had to be individually identified; there was no decoding possible because…well, there was nothing to decode. Sebastian was about to text back when another came through, catching him off guard.

               _That’s a getaway, if you can’t read it. Don’t dress obvious. –JM_

Shit. Shit shit shit. He was in a bad mood. Despite himself, the sniper’s heart hammered. Hopefully this first real job wouldn’t be the end of his job. And…the end of him. His fingers raced across his phone’s keyboard.

               _Sure thing Boss. Be right there. –SM_

               Sebastian decided he’d better not wait much longer. Checking that he’d read the location correctly once more, he stuffed a small firearm in his pocket, and was out the door.

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys don’t mind the way I write Sebastian. I thought the idea of him being a little younger was interesting. Anyway, reviews let you give Jim a hug.


	4. Tessellation Part 1

               Sebastian was at St. Bart’s in (what he thought was) a record timing of three and a half minutes. Hopefully that put Mor—or… ‘Boss’, as he probably should be getting into the habit of calling him, in a better mood. The sniper couldn’t help himself, but he was a little bit…curious. It was just beginning to dawn on him how long it had been since he’d actually _seen_ one of his bosses face to face. Not to mention the fact that Jim Moriarty was a special case. Almost no one actually got to see what he looked like; this wasn’t something that bosses usually did with their subordinates, let alone what the king of crime did with a lowly sniper…and a new recruit at that! Sebastian really _had_ made it, he realized. He was at the top. If only his parents could see him now.

               Quietly, the sniper pulled up next to the alleyway indicated in the text, making sure the doors were unlocked. He sat there for less than ten seconds before a well dressed, sickly looking man stumbled towards the car, swung himself into the passenger seat beside Sebastian, and growled a single word.

               “Drive.”

               Sebastian didn’t need to be told twice. He put his foot to the gas, jolting them forward and off into the main flow of traffic again. It suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going. Was that something he was supposed to ask, or did criminal masterminds expect their servants to know that already?

               Shit. He was going to have to ask, wasn’t he?

               “Uh, where to, Boss-?”

               “I don’t know,” Moriarty interrupted in an accented voice that Sebastian couldn’t place, “Just let me think.”

               He sounded tired. Or pained. Or both. The sniper decided to risk a glance at his employer, curiosity finally getting the better of him.

               Moriarty was…smaller than Sebastian had anticipated. Not to say he looked frail—he wasn’t thin enough to concern or draw attention. But he certainly wasn’t the hulking mass of a man that the legends had painted him as. He looked to be of average height…not even six foot, if Sebastian had to guess. God, was he really _taller_ than the legendary Jim Moriarty? The thought was…strange.

               Actually, besides the only slightly rumpled suit he wore, which was normal for a criminal leader, there were a few things that struck the sniper as strange. One of the main ones being how pained he looked at the current moment. He had his left hand pressed against his forehead with his eyes closed, and his other hand gripping the armrest of his chair weakly. Maybe this was a test of some sort. Maybe Sebastian was supposed to ask if he was alright. He knew 11 different ways to kill someone with a single needle but had no clue what he was supposed to say and not say around a criminal mastermind. His training was, at the moment, useless.

               “Boss, are you…?”

               “Good God, are you American?” Moriarty interrupted him again in a voice that implied it was very bad to be American. Sebastian had to fight the urge to answer with a ‘Sir, yes sir!’ that they’d always used in the military. This was high crime, where everyone spoke in soft, sophisticated tones. Something he always had to fight to imitate correctly.

               “Y…yes Boss. Originally,” Sebastian realized afterwards how stupid that must have sounded. ‘Originally’. Why the Hell did he say that?

               “Well let’s hope you’re smarter than the rest of them. And to answer your previous question I would be much better if you’d arrived earlier. What took you so long?”

               “I, uh, had to hotwire the car, Boss,” Sebastian explained. Irish. That was what his accent was.

               “You _what_?” Moriarty’s head snapped over to fix the sniper with a stare that made him want to shiver. Holy _shit_ , his eyes were dark.   

“I hotwired a car,” Sebastian explained, slightly proud that he’d thought of something Moriarty hadn’t, “That way, they can’t trace back my car to your previous location.”

The criminal stared at him.

“…Boss,” the sniper added hurriedly. He quailed slightly at the anger in Moriarty’s eyes, and when his eyes returned to the road, he had to fight not to wince at the fact that his boss was still staring at him.

“So now,” the criminal said quietly, gaze heavy on the sniper’s face, “We are driving a stolen car.”

Sebastian mentally uttered a string of profanities that would likely have made some of the more sensitive guys in the army cry, “Um…yes?”

“Tell me what the problem with that is.”

“Uh…” the sniper stammered, feeling like he was back in school again, “Boss, I’m not very good at this kind of-”

“This. Isn’t. A. Fucking. Riddle,” Moriarty said through gritted teeth, “Answer me.”

“Someone will report it missing,” Sebastian realized, “And give the license plate number.”

His boss was silent, still waiting expectantly.

“And,” the sniper swallowed nervously, realizing his other mistake, “If we had used my car, it would be traced to me first, and you’d have time to get out of it.”

Moriarty nodded, “We don’t steal cars, unless it is absolutely…” he hissed in what must have been pain, putting his left hand back to his forehead, “…necessary.”

“Yes, Boss. Apologies,” Sebastian said simply. Maybe Moriarty was in too much pain to kill him today.

“Apologies don’t mean anything unless you change your behavior. Make sure…” the mastermind paused, “Make sure this happens. As for our destination…” Moriarty recited an address to him, and Sebastian instantly committed it to memory. No more fuck ups today.

“I’ll have us there soon, boss.”

A heavy silence fell. Or, maybe Sebastian just thought it was heavy. Moriarty gave off a sort of aura that crackled in the air around him, dark and dangerous. But again, that could just be Sebastian. It was strange, being unnerved by an employer for once. The last time he’d been intimidated like this had probably been when he’d met his _first_ employer. And that had at least been one he’d done hits for. Sebastian was a bit out of his element, now that he was actually chaperoning a boss around, instead of killing for them. Oh, _fuck_ , what if he ended up a personal bodyguard? Moran had never liked that idea. Hopefully this was a one time thing, and then he’d get to start doing what he did best again. As often as he killed, sitting next to a…well, a technical serial killer was off putting.

“There is a raise in your future, Moran. Diligence pays well,” Moriarty spoke again, making Sebastian, to his horror, almost _flinch_.

What did one say to that? Hadn’t he said something about thank yous? Or was disciplined silence better? _Fuck_ …

“Thank you, Boss,” he finally said, deciding coming off as rude was a worse offense than seeming naive.

The criminal didn’t respond, which Sebastian took as a good sign. For a while they just drove in silence, Moran making sure to keep his eye out for possible threats. His first real job was, in fact, turning out to be almost dull. Though just Moriarty’s presence did a good job of keeping the sniper on edge.

Suddenly, a loud hiss of pain sounded from Sebastian’s left, followed by a soft curse. When he looked over, Moriarty was cradling his right hand and staring at it like it had personally offended him. His breathing was actually slightly labored, the sniper noted…it seemed like he was in more than a little bit of pain. It took him a moment to notice the shine of silver on his injured palm.

 _Oh_ …Moriarty was…Marked? This day kept getting stranger and stranger. Sebastian still wasn’t Marked himself…it wasn’t really among his priorities in life, anyway. It never happened to most people anyway and, if he was honest with himself, the whole ‘mental bond’ part of it didn’t appeal to the sniper in the _slightest._ He’d heard that some people had Bonds so strong that they heard each other’s _thoughts_. Not just emotions, like most people heard, but _actual, live action_ thoughts. Plus, there was the fact that unless you had a really weak bond, if your Soulmate died, you were screwed. So, for Sebastian, it was a ‘no thanks’.

But Jim Moriarty Marked…that was something the sniper never would have guessed. A criminal mastermind shrouded by rumors that would leave most people shaking in their boots had a Soulmate. Huh. Was that why he’d needed such a quick getaway?

Sebastian chanced a glance at his boss again, to find that he was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed again. Shit, he really looked like he was hurting; Moriarty didn’t strike the sniper as the type who showed pain very willingly, and he was definitely showing it now.

A theory started to form in Sebastian’s mind. What if Moriarty had _just_ Bonded, and tried to run? That would explain the pain. Apparently, if you didn’t spend the first day or so after the initial Bonding with your partner, things didn’t form properly and…well, shit happened. It was supposedly excruciating, and the sniper seemed to dimly remember hearing somewhere that it could be fatal. Something about vulnerabilities of the brain. He never had paid attention to that sort of thing because it hadn’t seemed relevant to him.

But now…

Now, he sort of wished he’d listened more. Not that he particularly cared about Moriarty, but given that he was Sebastian’s new boss, the sniper felt like helping out would win him a few brownie points.

“Are you alright, Boss?”

“I thought I’d already answered that,” Moriarty snapped weakly.

               “It’s just…I couldn’t help noticing your hand, Boss…”

               After a moment of silence, the criminal responded, “Just fucking drive.”

               Sebastian didn’t try to talk again.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Finally, after what seemed to Sebastian like an eternity, the two arrived in Sussex, in front of what the sniper assumed was one of many flats that Moriarty possessed. He brought the stolen car to a stop, grateful that the job was seemingly over, and was surprised when, after a moment, the criminal still was in the car.

               The sniper looked over at his boss, not sure what to do. He was still leaned back with his eyes closed—Sebastian would have thought he was asleep if it wasn’t for the look of intense concentration on his face.

               “We’re uh, here, Boss,” Sebastian announced awkwardly.

               “I know,” Moriarty answered weakly, “Just give me a minute.”

               The sniper thought for a second. He seemed to be in so much pain…maybe if Sebastian helped him, he’d make a better impression.

               “Boss, you look sick. I can help you inside if you want.”

               “I don’t want you to,” Moriarty growled.

               Sebastian sighed, falling silent again until, to his surprise, the criminal spoke again.

               “…But some help would be ideal.”

               Trying to ignore how much his heart was hammering, Sebastian got out of the car and allowed Moriarty to wrap a weak arm around him. He looked _pale_. At first, the criminal seemed determined to barely lean on him at all, but it was clear as soon as they got to the stairs that that would be a short lived effort. By the time they got to the door they were looking for, Sebastian was almost completely carrying Moriarty’s weight. The criminal grunted as he produced a key from his pocket, opening up the flat.

               The sniper’s eyes widened. He lived well off now, and his parents had made good money before he’d run off and joined the army, but _this_ was a nice flat. A mix of red carpeting and deeply colored hardwood floors gave it a warm, older feel, but the stainless steel appliances and modern light fixtures hinted at more modern tones. Not that Sebastian knew about that sort of thing.

               “Moran?” Moriarty brought the sniper back to reality.

               “Yes, Boss?”

               “You can put me down.”

               “Oh. Right,” Sebastian hurriedly let go of the criminal’s arm, allowing it to drop off from around his shoulders. Moriarty threw himself down into the nearest armchair, and the sniper had just started to leave when his boss’s voice stopped him in his tracks.

               “Wait,” Moriarty called after him monotonously.

               Sebastian turned around to find two black orbs staring at him.

               “Yes, boss?”

               “You are not to disclose this location to anyone, no matter the circumstance. You are not to tell anyone anything about me, including my current condition,” he held up his Mark, “Yes,” he added, to Sebastian’s raised eyebrows, “Even this. If you do by any chance choose to disobey these orders, you will be dead before you have a chance to regret it. Do you understand me?”

               The sniper nodded curtly, “Yes, Boss.”

               “Get that stolen car far away from here.”

               “Yes, Boss.”

               “One mistake, Moran. That’s all it takes.”

               “Of course, Boss.”

               “That’s all it takes to convince me of your disposability.”

               Sebastian swallowed, “Yes, Boss.”

               Moriarty nodded towards the door, dismissing him, and with a quick, respectful nod, the sniper turned and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: No, this is not a Mormor fic. Sebastian is just a teensy bit afraid of his new boss.


	5. Tessellation Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Self harm trigger warning.

               Sherlock was as quiet as possible as he climbed the stairs to the flat. Hopefully, John was still with Mrs. Hudson. There were too many windows around the main room for it to be safe from snipers, so that meant if they were in the flat at all, they’d be in one of the bedrooms. The detective gritted his teeth against the pain, holding his breath as he took the steps one at a time, begging that they wouldn’t creak.

               _God_ , his head hurt.

               After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock reached the top. He silently opened the door to the flat and stepped inside. Mercifully, it looked to be empty. As a precaution, he took one more quick glance around before quickly and quietly making his way to the kitchen.

               Frantically, he searched the countertops for knife, which, after he spotted it, he swiped up in a flash of silver. He needed to discover the truth about this, and quickly. As little as he knew about Soulmates, the detective knew the complexity of Bonds. He knew that if this was a legitimate Mark, there would be some sort of internal sign of it. Sherlock started to undo the bandages he’d wrapped around his Marked hand. Once they were off, he carefully laid them out on the countertop, so as not to tangle them. He wanted to be able to put them on again quickly after he was finished with this.

               The detective found himself examining the Mark. It felt so foreign… it was like he’d been violated. It felt dirty on his hand. He hoped dearly that this was all a ploy. That this was a tattoo or ink or _something_. Anything other than a true Mark. Sherlock felt overwhelmed, and dimly he wondered if this was just another mood swing. Biting his lip, he lined the blade of the knife up with his Mark of the same color, and sliced.

               Big mistake.

               Sherlock gasped, very nearly losing his grip on consciousness for the third time that day. Scarlet flooded from his palm, sticky and warm, but what was shocking was that the pain in his _head_ seemed to increase _at least_ tenfold, making him see black spots and almost collapse to the floor. He sucked in air, feeling absolutely no relief in his lungs, no matter how deeply he breathed. His hand _burned_. He didn’t even think he could move it. The detective reached clumsily for the bandages on the counter, starting to wrap them around his hand once more. They had only gone around his hand twice when he realized that the liquid soaking into them wasn’t only red…there was also silver mixed in.

               Forcing his eyes to focus, the detective unwrapped the bandages one last time to squint at the cut on his palm. His first thought was that his blood was chemically reacting with whatever ink Jim used to make the fake Mark. But as he watched, Sherlock noticed that the silver, while moving slowly, was actively flowing from the wound just as blood was.

               Ink didn’t do that.

               This was real. The throbbing in his hand wasn’t because of a drug. There hadn’t _been_ any drug. Jim Moriarty hadn’t planned this. How could he have? Jim was a genius, but there was no possible way to deduce another person’s Soulmate… was there? And besides, why would he want to Bond with Sherlock? He had run after the Bonding because he hated this just as much as the detective did!

               Sherlock Holmes was… _Bonded_ with Jim Moriarty. The detective suddenly leaned over the sink to retch, only able to cough up a single mouthful of bile. He was _Bonded_. This couldn’t be happening. This _couldn’t_ be happening…

               A sound on the stairs snapped Sherlock to attention. He instantly grabbed the bandages on the countertop and rapidly twisted them around his Marked hand, blood thoroughly soaking through the first few layers. Just as he finished tying a hasty knot, the door opened near silently.

               “Who’s there?” a familiar voice called out with authority, “I don’t know who you are, but I’m armed and I _will_ shoot you.”

               “John,” Sherlock called weakly, leaning on the counter, “Kitchen.”

               “Oh, thank God,” the doctor’s voice instantly softened, “Sherlock, where _were_ y-- what’s wrong?”

               The initial concern on John’s face only increased when he caught sight of the detective, who was still breathing hard and in _horrific_ pain.

               “Met with Jim,” Sherlock managed, vague panic seeping into his mind again. _Why_ wouldn’t the mood swings stop?

               “You met with-?” John asked incredulously, “Are you _mental_? Sherlock, you look pale.”

               “You should get back to Mrs. Hudson,” the detective evaded, “He might still have snipers…”

               “If he wanted me dead, he’d have gotten me in the past few minutes I’ve been talking to you. Those windows are huge,” he gestured towards the living room’s main light source, “Why is your hand wrapped? What _happened_?”       

               Sherlock huffed; maybe if he acted like an arse, John would leave him be, “It’s not important. I need to think-”

               “Is that _blood_?” the doctor exclaimed, eyes widening at the deep red spattered on the floor and countertop.

               The detective attempted to roll his eyes, and only succeeded in making himself more dizzy, “He came at me with a knife,” Sherlock invented, “I grabbed it and it got my hand.”

               “Good God, I can’t believe that. I mean, he’s mental, but Christ…” John trailed off, studying the instrument, “You don’t suppose there’s DNA on it, do you? That could seriously help the situation with the police.”

               “He wore gloves,” Sherlock lied monotonously, swaying slightly.

               “Of course. Can’t catch a break,” the doctor mumbled, “Look, Sherlock, I’m sorry about what I said-”

               “I know. You have my apologies, as well,” he said hastily. Black was starting to fog up Sherlock’s vision again…

               “It was wrong to call you a machi-Sherlock!” an alarmed John managed to catch the detective as he collapsed, making sure he didn’t hit the floor. He was awake again in no more than three seconds.

               “S…sorry….” The detective mumbled, disoriented. Oh, _God_ , all the pain was rushing back so quickly…

               “You need to lay down. Did he drug you?”

               “Possibly. Woke up on the rooftop. He was gone by then.”

               “You met on the rooftop?”

               “Unimportant. I need to sleep it off. Doubt it’s lethal.”

               “But what did you two talk-? No, Sherlock we need to go to the hospital. Just because you _doubt_ it’s lethal doesn’t mean we can trust-”

               “Trust _me_ ,” Sherlock pushed, “I _know_ it isn’t lethal. Let me sleep.”

               “Sherlock…”

               “John.”

               The doctor sighed and wrapped an arm around the detective, who was still leaning on him, to help him to his bedroom. Sherlock hoped each step would be the last—with movement he could feel the nausea intensifying and he desperately hoped that he wouldn’t vomit on John. _Finally_ , mercifully, he was gently helped down to his bed, and the detective closed his eyes, hoping that perhaps the illusion of rest would cause the pain to lessen. In reality, all it did was get rid of any distractions from the throbbing in his head and hand.

               “Sherlock, at least let me check your cut before you sleep,” John coaxed. Sherlock didn’t bother opening his eyes to respond.

               “I’ll sleep for a few hours, let the drug wear off. Maybe then.”

               “No, not _maybe_. Yes! Why did he drug you in the first place? And then he came at you with a knife? That story makes _no sense_ , Sherlock. Even for you, this is odd!”

               The detective could feel another wave of panic seeping through the Bond, and, he hated to admit, it was making him anxious to learn more about this whole ‘Soulmates’ business. Despite this, he still felt a tiny bit guilty faking sleep in front of an exasperated and concerned John, who stormed out in the most quiet way possible, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

               Sherlock waited a minute before moving. Slowly, he sat up, biting his tongue enough so that he wouldn’t have to think so much about the pain in his head. He very nearly fell over at least twice in the short five steps to his computer, but finally, he reached it and grabbed it with his left hand, his right hurting too badly to be useful.

               Somehow, the detective made it back to his bed, where he turned his laptop on and opened his browser as quietly as possible. He typed google into the address bar, and once he was there, stared at the screen for a moment.

               How to get the most concise answers possible? There was undoubtedly some generic medical website that had an article of dubious credibility on the subject, but Sherlock wasn’t sure if that would tell him more than first hand experiences would.

               Cautiously, he searched for **am i bonded?** and clicked on the first result. Some sort of question answer website. The detective skimmed the question at the top of the page, asked by someone with a cartoon blonde girl as their avatar. Charming.

               **Am I Bonded?**

**-I kissed this guy and my heart started beating really fast. I can’t get him out of my head, even though we just met. Are we Soulmates and if so, how do I tell my parents?**

               Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the top rated answer.

                              **Lol r u fuckin 12?**

               Right. That was fun. Dubiously reliable medical website it was. Sherlock tried a search for **how to know if i am bonded** next. He clicked on the first result, an article that matched his question nearly word for word.

               **Soulmates and Bonding** it read. To the right of the title, there was an over-edited picture of a smiling woman putting her hand to her endearing husband’s cheek. To the left, there was only a series of advertisements that hurt Sherlock’s throbbing head to look at. Nevermind. Time to read.

               **Finding your Soulmate is a rare and special experience for anyone! Just under 20% of people find and keep their Soulmates, which is quite an incredible statistic! Finding your Soulmate is life changing for many people, and allows them to know another person in a way that…** the detective skimmed for a little while **…But none of this could happen without a Bond! Bonding between Soulmates is triggered by the first touch of skin on skin for a pair. There are no known cases of a Bond happening after the first skin on skin contact, but specialists theorize that this may not be impossible. For some it happens during a kiss, for some it’s a pat on the back, and for some, it’s a handshake!**

Sherlock wanted to vomit. Nevertheless, he kept reading.

               **…A Bond usually shows itself in the form of a silver Mark at the site of initial contact. Each Mark looks different, though those of Mates always match or very closely resemble each other. In rare cases, no Mark appears, however, which could be a sign of Bond Disorder. **

He skipped to the part about the initial Bonding.

               **…When a Bond first forms between two individuals, a lot of important changes are actually happening in the brain! It is imperative that newly Bonded Soulmates take the necessary precautions below to ensure their mental Bond forms correctly.**

Mental Bond? Sherlock skimmed until he found the section on that.

               **…Soulmates also share a mental Bond of varying strength. Some pairs find that they only can sense vague emotions from one another, others share all of their thoughts. Most people are in the middle somewhere.**

Emotions…the mood swings…the detective fought the urge to gag at the fact that he was getting flashes of _Jim Moriarty’s_ emotions. At least they weren’t complete thoughts, but he felt infected nonetheless. He returned to the section on initial Bonding and the list of precautions.

               ***First and foremost, stay close together! Your Bond is much more likely to develop correctly if you and your mate are near to one another. Think of it like a cell phone signal. The closer you are to the actual tower, the stronger your signal will be!**

Sherlock had to fight to keep from putting his face in his hands.

               ***Stay calm and don’t stress! If you have a stronger Bond, you may be getting flashes of emotion from your partner already. Don’t put them through more stress than they already need. Maybe go see a funny movie together!**

How in the Hell was this on a _medical_ website? Moreover, if he was already getting flashes of Jim’s emotions, did that mean they had a strong Bond? Sherlock sincerely hoped not.

               ***Take care of yourself! Eat nutritious foods, get good sleep, drink water, and _don’t leave your Soulmate’s side_. The forming of the Bond can be straining on anyone, so why not make it as easy on yourself as possible?**

Sherlock couldn’t take this anymore. He closed the tab and returned to the search engine, entering one last confirmation of the information he already knew, but still dreaded.

               **signs of bond strain** , he searched, and clicked the first result once more, skimming straight to the bulleted list.

               ***Severe headache**

***Nausea**

***Dizziness**

***Burning sensation around Mark**

***Fatigue**

***Fainting**

Sherlock skipped to the middle of the page, where a list of consequences of extended Bond strain was. Among the few that jumped out at him were:

               ***Coma**

***Brain damage**

***Permanent Bond mutation**

               Good. At least this was a step in the right direction. It would hurt, but the detective wanted more than anything to break this Bond, even if it meant risking brain damage. He couldn’t be Bonded with Jim Moriarty. He _couldn’t_. Jim was a psychopath. He knew how to play the detective like Sherlock played his violin. A Bond with Moriarty meant getting everything Sherlock cared about taken away from him. It meant hurting. It meant losing John. It meant, if he inferred correctly from the implications of the mood swings, that his emotions would slowly start to fade until…until they were nothing. Until he was like Jim. How many times Sherlock had wished his emotions would disappear…but now that it had the possibility of happening, well, he wasn’t sure that was what he wanted at all. Though it _would_ be useful…

               To test his theory, the detective searched one last time for **am i bonded with a psychopath** , and clicked the first result that looked at least slightly credible.

               **…those who Bond with psychopaths feel the same as everyone else when they are initially Bonded. They still experience the same hormonal changes, and some of the mental ones. A psychopath, however, does not feel emotions or remorse the same as another person does, therefore their Bonded will not experience the same mental Bond as another would.**

**Those Bonded with psychopaths will not feel the same flashes of emotion from their Soulmates as others. One anonymous man stated:**

**“I never felt anything on her end. Everything was dulled, and recently I’ve started to feel my own emotions fading away, like hers. Occasionally, I get hot flashes in my Mark…she feels the lust aspect of it (we have a romantic Bond), but other than that, there’s absolutely nothing. I’d almost describe it like boredom.”**

Sherlock had read enough. He closed his laptop slowly and decided he’d rather set it on the bedside table than on the desk it had originally rested at, since that would mean walking.

               What now? He supposed he had better rest to get rid of this wretched headache, to begin with. The last article had raised a red flag in his mind, however, that had it racing. If he was getting emotional flashes from Jim, a psychopath, then there was an inconsistency somewhere. He couldn’t have been wrong in his deduction—Moriarty showed all the telltale signs of one, so was Jim already playing him; imitating emotions? Perhaps he wasn’t in the same pain as Sherlock was, and was trying to convince him to come out and play? Moriarty had never been one to use emotions in the game…it was all intellectual. But what if for him this was easy? What if Sherlock was out of his element? The detective lay down on his back, head spinning, and closed his eyes, trying to map out the problem. He drifted off in about two minutes.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock woke to find John standing over him, holding a knife. He lazily squinted up at the doctor, unfazed by the blood spattered silverware.

               “Good. You’re awake,” John said coldly. The detective felt tendrils of pain wrapping themselves around his head again, more intense than ever. He bit his tongue and waited for the doctor to say more, mostly because he didn’t trust himself to speak without moaning.

               Sherlock quirked a prompting eyebrow.

               “Did Moriarty really come at you with this?” John asked accusingly, not taking his eyes off of the detective’s.

               “…No,” he croaked out. God, either he was getting worse at lying or John was getting smarter.

               “Oh, good!” the doctor exclaimed, “Great. Fan _tastic_. You know, I was going to say it was strange he had the same silverware as us.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know your thoughts? I'm going to try to update more frequently :)


	6. Tessellation Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suicidal thoughts trigger warning.

               Jim sighed in relief when Sebastian left. What a mess this was. He knew he couldn’t trust the kid in the slightest, but right now that wasn’t the problem. He had much bigger fish to fry.

               Groaning, he forced himself to stand, swaying on his feet. The room spun around the criminal, and he had to take a minute to get his bearings before actually moving. He needed to keep his strength up, in case Jo decided to pull something particularly bold. She had to _pay_ for what she’d done today. What a horrendous time to have his second in command betray him. Had she somehow known that he and Sherlock would Bond? Jim didn’t know, and at this point, with the room starting to spin and tilt faster around him, he didn’t particularly care anymore.

               The criminal took a step towards the kitchen, the countertop looking more and more inviting with every step he took. It was something to lean on, something that he needed quite desperately at this point. Jim half fell onto it when he finally reached his destination, breathing heavily and shaking with fatigue. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping on the name of a particularly brutal assassin still high on his ranks before sending a text.

               _1368, 1393, 1310 –JM_

A few seconds later, he got a reply.

               _How do you want it done? –AL_

The letters swam in front of Jim’s eyes as he attempted to type.

               _I don’t. Hold them securely until I decide how I want it done. I’m thinking building 898. I will pay you personally and handsomely. –JM_

_Will do, Boss. –AL_

_Do not disappoint me. –JM_

               Not waiting to see the response, Jim set his phone aside and ran a hand over his face. He could barely _move_ his Marked hand; it felt as though someone was searing all the skin off his hand with a blowtorch while pressing it down onto a bed of nails _all at once_. The criminal had never been one to hurt easily, but _this_ …this was agony _._

               An unexpected, severe wave of revulsion suddenly washed over Jim. He had no idea what he was so disgusted by, though he supposed there were plenty of things that made sense. The criminal felt bile rise in his throat and, this time, he wasn’t able to suppress it. He was barely able to stumble to the sink and lean over before the first heave, emptying the contents of his stomach.

               After a few final dry heaves, Jim coughed and spat, grimacing at the bitter taste now in his mouth. He leaned against the counter, wanting nothing more than a cold glass of water he wasn’t sure he was even able to pour.

               It would have been nice if Sebastian was here to do that for him.

               Moriarty shook his head. What was he thinking? Moran was an employee; it would be unprofessional for him to be doing such things. In fact, it was unprofessional enough to have him know where Jim lived at all. Hopefully, he’d successfully returned the stolen car. Moronic child. How the Hell someone could do as well on the initiation as Moran had and still be so hopelessly clueless was a mystery to Jim. Though perhaps he’d bribed his way in. Maybe the criminal should keep his eye on him…

               Jim’s head throbbed, making him gasp and press a hand to his forehead again. Someone was crushing his skull with rocks, the pressure increasing until it felt almost unbearable; _surely_ it had to end soon. Maybe he’d pass out…

               Reluctantly, the criminal removed his hand from his head and, biting his tongue to keep from moaning, shakily removed his gun from his trousers, reaching slightly to open a drawer with a second bottom and tossing the weapon inside. He wouldn’t be needing that today, after all. Sherlock had made damn sure of that. Jim then stumbled to the door, setting every one of the locks he had in place. Now that Jo had proved herself unworthy, he had to be extra cautious, even when one of his best assassins was looking for her. Now including Moran, she was one of the two people who actually knew where Moriarty lived, and Jim didn’t want to risk hiring anyone to watch out for him, after this betrayal. Actually…

               Maybe he should text Moran. He already knew where Jim lived anyway, and he seemed to fear him enough to remain loyal. The sniper was still young and stupid.

               The criminal stumbled over to where his phone lay again and sent out a text.

               _When you’re done with the car, I want you back here. Rent a flat and watch out for suspicious activity near mine. I will reimburse you for rent, amenities, etc in addition to a bonus. –JM_

In what must have been record timing, Moran responded.

               _Yes, Boss. –SM_

Instead of feeling relieved, Jim felt another pulse of revulsion go through him, still for unknown reasons. Maybe it was the nausea. Speaking of which, if he was going to be throwing up, the criminal figured he should change out of his suit into something more casual. What if this went on for weeks? How was he supposed to manage his empire then? Right now he could barely _walk_ without feeling exhausted…

               The criminal gagged again, this time able to will himself not to vomit. He needed to get changed. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have even thought about the walk to his bedroom. It was so rarely used, anyway—he hated sleeping so much that he avoided it until exhaustion started to interfere with his functioning. Now the door looked a few kilometers away, rather than a few meters. What he wouldn’t give now, just to be able to feel well and lay down for a few hours. He wasn’t sure he could sleep when he hurt this badly, though he supposed he’d have to try.

Dazed with pain, Jim started the journey to his bedroom. He made it about halfway before a jolt of pain sent him slumping to the floor.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Why the _hell_ would you hurt yourself like this, Sherlock?” John asked angrily, reentering the detective’s room with a medical kit in hand, “What did Moriarty _say_ to you?”

               He laughed weakly, “We barely talked for twenty minutes.”

               The doctor shook his head, “It doesn’t _matter_ , Sherlock! What did he say that would make you do this to yourself?” Sherlock felt gentle fingers start undoing the bandages on his hand, and his heartbeat spiked in panic.

               “He didn’t say anything!” the detective exclaimed, inventing wildly, “I had that knife with me in case of an ambush and he-”

               “Sherlock, stop.”

               The words died in Sherlock’s throat, and a heavy silence fell over the room. He refused to meet John’s eyes, studying the half undone bandages on his Marked hand.

               “Leave me be,” he said weakly, disgusted with himself. He was sickened by his own failure. Failure to fix this problem efficiently, failure to hide his Mark for longer than two hours, and failure to end Moriarty before all of this could have happened.

               John watched him steadily, as though he knew of the turmoil inside the detective’s mind. Sherlock still didn’t look at him.

               “You know,” the doctor finally said, “The police still think you invented him. Lestrade texted me saying-”

               “Yes, I know,” the detective interrupted moodily.

               “Right,” John acknowledged, ever calm, “Listen, Sherlock. Greg is coming over in a few to talk about fixing this. We’ll sort this out. But if you’re having suicidal thoughts, I need to know so we can-”

               “Suicidal thoughts?” Sherlock frowned at his friend, finally meeting his eyes, “Is that what you think this is about?”

               “You took a knife to your hand, Sherlock.”

               The detective didn’t bother voicing his immediate first thought: if he had wanted to kill himself, he’d have been long dead before John even had a chance to guess something was wrong. He knew every method, the risks of each, the likelihood of failure. He’d learned a lot while he’d been a teenager, and something had always prevented him from deleting the information.

Erratic anger flared up in Sherlock’s chest. He supposed he was going to have to tell, then, wasn’t he? No use worrying John over the wrong thing. At least now they could work together on a solution.

               “It’s not _my hand_ , anymore,” he said through gritted teeth.

               “What are you going on about-?”

               Unable to take it anymore, Sherlock yanked his bandaged hand out of Johns’, ignoring the way the doctor’s eyes widened at how much it shook, and ripped the rest of the bandages off in one, violent tug.

               The pain was _blinding_ , but Sherlock bit his lip until he tasted iron to keep from crying out. He didn’t care anymore. Jim wanted to ruin his life, fine. But he was going to make _damn sure_ it hurt while he was doing it. He hoped ruefully that the criminal had felt the same pain he had, just now.

               Panting from exertion and anger, the detective tossed the bandages aside and waited. John was very quiet again, his expression gone blank as he waited for Sherlock’s breathing to slow. Finally, as hopelessness started to replace Sherlock’s anger, he spoke, quiet as a mouse.

               “Sherlock, is that a Mark?”

               The detective snorted caustically, “No, it’s a tattoo.”

               “Don’t…” John started, but abandoned that argument before he’d even touched it, “Are you sure it’s…him?”

               “We shook hands, John. It definitely happened then.”

               “How do you know?” John pushed, still apparently hoping that for once Sherlock was wrong.

               “We both blacked out,” the detective said tonelessly, pretending he didn’t notice the horror on the doctor’s face increase tenfold.

               “Shit,” John hissed.

               “What?”

               “No, it’s…” the doctor shook his head, “How are you feeling? What are your other symptoms?”

               Sherlock told him.

               “ _Shit_ …” John cursed again, grating on the detective’s nerves.

               “What?” he asked testily, “Why is that bad, other than the fact that I feel like someone is kneading my mind like dough?”

               “…That’s…” the doctor said slowly, “That’s a strong Bond, Sherlock. Those are all signs. I don’t think we can break-”

               “We have to break it!” Sherlock exclaimed, panicked. John only looked at him sadly.

               “It will kill you, Sherlock,” he said quietly, “You can’t break a Bond that strong without killing both Soulmates-”

               “Don’t say that word!” the detective shouted, getting up to pace despite the screams of protest from his body. He didn’t care that his vision was going dark at the edges. All that mattered was that Moriarty _had_ to be beaten.

               “What do you want me to call it?”

               “Anything else,” Sherlock shook his head, “What time is Lestrade visiting? We can’t tell him. He’ll think we were working together all this time.”

               John nodded slowly, “I agree. We need to find Moriarty. Allow the Bond to form, then we can worry about-”

               “No,” the detective disagreed, “I don’t care what the consequences are, I will not be _Bonded_ to that…that…”

               “…Psychopath,” the doctor finished softly, “I don’t like it either, Sherlock, but you’ll die if we keep you two apart. Brain damage at the very least. For both of you, not just him.”

               “As long as he suffers, I’m willing to go down with him.”

               Sherlock felt John’s gaze harden, and he stopped pacing to cock his head at the doctor.

               “What?”

               “No by all means,” John said coldly, “Die. See if I care.”

               _Oh_. It suddenly dawned on Sherlock that dying without taking your friends’ feelings into account was considered rude by the general population.

               “John, I didn’t-”

               “Do I really,” the doctor’s voice started to rise as he stood up, “mean that _little_ to you, Sherlock? You’d off yourself without even _thinking_ of what that might do to me?”

               “John, Moriarty has to be stopped-”

               “And we _can_ stop him, if only you’ll just allow the Bond to form-!”

               “If we let it form, he’ll know my thoughts! He’ll be harder to kill than ever! He’s at least weak now!”

               “You don’t _know_ that, though! He could have been faking his blackout! He left before you, Sherlock. That’s too lucky of a coincidence. What kinds of mood swings have you been getting?”

               “Anger,” Sherlock proclaimed triumphantly, “Panic, fear. He didn’t plan for this, John. He’s hiding. If I can find him, he’ll be so easy to-”

               “Alright, I can’t listen to this,” John threw up his hands in defeat, starting towards the door, “You know, Sherlock, I really thought more of you. I never knew you could be this selfish.”

               “Selfish?” Sherlock called after him, “Who’s the one forcing me to stay alive?” Anger heated his veins, an ugly red accent to the pain clouding his vision.

               The door to the flat slammed, leaving the detective alone.

(o0o0o0o0)

Jim woke up on the floor, ears ringing. For a horrible, panicked moment, he thought someone had broken in and captured him, but then he remembered. His Marked hand had been hurting and he’d blacked out. The criminal forced his eyes open.

               He was a few paces away from the bedroom door, lying on his side. _Fantastic_. Now he couldn’t even get across his flat. Maybe this at least meant the Bond was breaking. Hopefully. Moriarty could already feel the burn in his palm returning, along with the pain in his head, and if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it for over a month. In fact, even another _day_ of this seemed daunting. He was vulnerable like this, especially after Jo’s betrayal, and vulnerability was a very dangerous thing for someone in his profession to have. Especially when Sherlock was still trying to get him convicted.

               _Sherlock._

               The thought of the detective made Jim angry enough that he sat up too quickly, sending his head spinning again. The criminal didn’t care. Sherlock Holmes was motivation enough to fight through the pain. In fact, he was motivation enough to suffer through a _year_ of this pain, if it meant breaking the Bond and getting back on track with their plans. Jim gritted his teeth, fighting his way up the wall into a standing position. His heart hammered from a mix of exhaustion and fury, tinting his vision red.

               He was supposed to be _dead_ by now.

               Everything had been planned out flawlessly. So, so flawlessly. Moriarty had given them both a golden ticket out of this world and Sherlock _apparently_ had the gall to refuse it. Not only that, but he had to add insult to injury by throwing Bonding into the mix.

               It was ordinary. Sherlock had made Jim ordinary—no, he’d made them _both_ ordinary. The only two special people in the world, and the detective had decided to _ruin_ them both, rather than to die with dignity.

               It was insulting. It was sickening. Jim felt _dirty_. He felt used. He’d been _stupid_ enough to think that Sherlock wasn’t ordinary, and what did he have to show for it now? His entire plan had been rejected; foiled by an angel who would rather take the road everyone else took.

               The criminal’s head throbbed. He hated Sherlock. He truly, deeply hated Sherlock Holmes. There had been a time when he’d thought they would share a destiny together, but that time was passed. Last time, he’d been merciful. He’d been kind; built them a destiny together. But now…now his kindness had run out.

               Moriarty was going to make Sherlock fall again. And this time, it was going to hurt.

 


	7. Penumbra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MAJOR self harm trigger warning.

John stormed out of 221B, pushing all of Sherlock’s previous warnings about Moriarty and snipers from his mind. Jim didn’t want him; he wanted Sherlock. And right now, that was simply becoming too much.

               People on the pavement passed the doctor in a blur as his thoughts raced. He was angry. More angry than he’d been in a while. Though he supposed that didn’t mean much. John and Sherlock had fought a lot since this whole fiasco had started. He’d been hoping, in spite of himself, that it might end soon. Just a little bit of normalcy wasn’t too much to ask for, was it? Not that he didn’t _like_ the excitement, but this…this was starting to hurt. John didn’t like seeing Sherlock getting thinner by the day, unable to eat because he was figuring out a new, sick puzzle. John didn’t like the idea of some creep giggling as he stalked their blogs, strapping people to bombs and constructing sick obstacle courses for them to race through. He liked cases. Running after criminals at midnight and making his body and mind work like only Sherlock could make them work. Not this.

               The doctor stopped to look at an advertisement showing a grinning man and woman, obviously Soulmates, kissing with their hands entwined. He narrowed his eyes at the text above their heads.

               **Want this? Finding your one and only Soulmate is only a click away! To find out more, go to findmysoulmate.com and start your 30 day free trial! Because life’s too short to spend alone!**

John’s mouth twisted into a disgusted scowl. How could something so romanticized become so twisted? Sherlock was Bonded now. Bonded to a madman who would happily see them both dead. If only they’d never touched hands. _Why_ had they needed to shake hands? What had possessed Sherlock to do that? No…more importantly, what were the consequences going to be?

               Obviously, Sherlock didn’t like the idea of allowing the Bond to form, but really, what was their other option? John knew a strong Bond when he saw one and Sherlock had _every symptom_. If this didn’t form correctly, either death or severe brain damage would result, and the doctor was _not_ willing to accept either of those options. This was Sherlock. Sherlock who was a constant; an anchor. Losing him was something John didn’t think he’d be able to make it through. The detective had saved his life, and even now, John needed him like he needed oxygen.

               How sad was that?

               The doctor shook his head, continuing to stomp down the street. It could be worse. At least, according to Sherlock, Moriarty was panicking too. At least he didn’t plan this. That was something. Maybe they could find a way to use this to their advantage. Maybe Sherlock could find a way to delete or suppress the Bond. Maybe…

               A distraction slammed into John’s shoulder—luckily, not his injured one, and interrupted his musing. Just as the doctor’s eyes found the assailant, however, the irritation disappeared not just from them, but from his expression entirely.

               “Sorry!” a wide eyed brunette panted, glancing around nervously before continuing running away from him. John’s mouth fell open a little bit as he stared after her, suddenly wishing he hadn’t worn so much clothing today.

               Oh, God…what if that had been it? What if that was her? What if that was his Soulmate? If it wasn’t Sherlock, who else could it be? This was like a movie scene. What if he never saw her again? Cursing under his breath, he deliberated calling after her for half a second before noticing the sad truth.

               She was already gone.

               “Damn it!” John cursed loudly, earning him a dirty look from an elderly couple. That could have been it. His one chance to get away from all this _madness_ and he’d blown it. She’d been so pretty, too. And clearly afraid—it was hard to tell if her eyes had actually been as big as he’d thought they were, or just widened in panic. What was following her? Or who? He should have _helped_ her, instead of standing there drooling like a prick…

               John’s phone rang, and he reluctantly checked the caller i.d to see Lestrade’s name. _Shit_. He really should have told Greg not to come over. God _dammit_. He’d been so preoccupied with thinking about himself and his own Soulmate that he’d forgotten about the real problem at hand. Sherlock was Bonded to a monster and here he was worrying about his own Mate? What was wrong with him?

               “Greg,” the doctor greeted tensely.

               _“John…you said to come over-”_ Lestrade said hesitantly, trailing off.

               “Yeah, yeah I did…” John pressed a hand to his temple; all this was giving _him_ a headache, “Listen, Greg, it’s not a great time.”

               _“I know,”_ Greg said earnestly, _“Sherlock’s bloody Bonded? When did this happen? He’s on the floor, John-”_

All the air left John’s lungs, “He’s _what_?” the doctor exclaimed, slightly panicked that Lestrade knew the truth.

               _“He’s on the floor. I’d call a doctor, but with the press and everything, I thought you’d be the one to tell first-”_

“Fucking-!” he looked around in a panic, as if anything of use could be found amongst the landscape of brick and asphalt, “Greg, whatever you do, _don’t tell anyone about this_. Understand? No one. He’s Bonded to Jim Moriarty as of earlier today and we-”

               _“Wait, what? I think I must have heard wrong…”_

“Sherlock,” the doctor enunciated carefully, “is Bonded to Jim Moriarty.”

               _“…Jim MORIARTY? Are you barking mad?”_ John started at the outburst, which only served to fuel his own worry more.             

               “Yes, Jim Moriarty. We can’t tell press, for obvious reasons. It was a complete accident. They…shook hands and it just happened. Sherlock tried to hide it from me at first but-”

               _“Wait, wait, am I hearing this right? Jim fucking Moriarty? As in the bloke who stole the crown jewels and broke into Pentonville on the SAME DAY?”_

“Yes!” John said impatiently.

               _“The same Jim Moriarty who Sherlock’s been going on about for weeks?”_

“Yes!”

               “… _You’re joking.”_

The doctor huffed in frustration, “Just promise me this is between us until it’s sorted out. Promise me, Greg.”

               There was an uncomfortably long silence. John listened to traffic to pass the time.

               _“Of course, John. I won’t tell a soul. But Jesus Christ, what are you going to do?”_

The doctor sighed tiredly, noticing the use of ‘you’ instead of ‘we’, “I don’t know, Greg. Everything keeps getting more and more complicated.”

               _“I’ll try to help as much as I can. But mate, you really need to get over here. Sherlock looks like he’s in a lot of pain.”_

“Yeah, well there’s not much I can do about it, is there?” John snapped, “We can’t exactly let the Bond form. We don’t even know where the bloke is!”

               _“This looks bad, John. I haven’t seen him this pale in a long time. Stop by the drugstore on your way back and grab him something to take the edge off-”_

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he said coldly, “Since when do you care about what happens to Sherlock, anyway? You sold him out!”

               _“I didn’t have a choice. This is my job. What makes you trust him?”_

John’s cheeks flushed in anger, “Because he’s my best friend! I know him, Greg, and so do you! You think Sherlock would honestly enjoy hurting another person? _Really?_ ”

 _“…Look,”_ Lestrade said slowly, _“All the evidence points to him having a hand in it. I don’t want to consider that possibility, because he’s my friend too, but-”_

“But _nothing_!” John exclaimed, “Just a minute ago, you were talking about how horrible Jim Moriarty is, and now you’re back to thinking he was a made up character?”

               _“John, I have to consider everything,”_ Greg said weakly, _“People have died. This Bond doesn’t change anything that happened. If anything, it works against Sherlock. Two psychopaths Bonded together-”_

John hung up, unable to listen anymore. This was hopeless. This whole _fucking_ situation was hopeless. Now Greg knew about the Bond and they couldn’t even be sure he would keep the secret. Sherlock was in pain, Moriarty was nowhere to be found, and according to the London police force, Sherlock Holmes was a fugitive. They had no one to run to, not even Mycroft. John felt like the ground was falling out from underneath him, every side a different obstacle. To his right was fire, his left, quicksand, in front was water…

               He sighed, putting his phone away and starting the short walk to the drugstore. London looked very grey today.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim leaned over the bathtub, his entire body shaking as he gritted his teeth against the pain in his head. Hair frazzled, skin pale, and clothed in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants, he didn’t look half as intimidating as usual. The criminal didn’t have time to acknowledge this uncomfortable fact, however. Right now, all of his attention was focused on holding the knife in his left hand steady.

               With great effort, he spread the fingers of his Marked hand, eyeing the shimmering skin with contempt. He was tainted; dirty. This needed to change. Sherlock was going to _hurt_. If that meant Jim had to hurt along with him, so be it.

               Eyes black with hatred, Moriarty lined the tip of the thin blade up with the edge of his Mark, and sliced.

               Warmth flooded over his palm, and Jim gasped as the pain in his skull increased tenfold, hating how he sounded like a wounded animal. Perspiration beaded on his forehead and black clouded the edges of his vision, blurring all thoughts save for the one that was most important: _Do it again._

               The criminal obliged, slicing his palm again and again, fueled by nothing other than pure, unadulterated rage. _Sherlock’s fault._ This was all _his_ _fault._ The noise of silverware on skin was like nails on a chalkboard to Jim, and he _loved it_ because of that. He was blinded by the pain; forgetting his name, his profession, his location. Nothing mattered except for breaking the Bond. He had to do this. He _had to_ …

               Moriarty was seeing red, though he wasn’t sure it was only because of the scarlet running down his arm and the side of the tub. Everything he could see throbbed bright red, ever darkening at the edges. The smell of iron was so strong he could actually _taste_ it in the back of his throat, along with another less prominent smell that he couldn’t put his finger on. Probably had something to do with the silver leaking out of his hand in tiny, silver droplets. His palm was on fire, and his mind was being slashed to ribbons, but at least Sherlock was hurting. _At least_ there was that.

               Another pained noise escaped him as he continued to cut, now trying to get under the skin, having finished a complete, jagged circle around the Mark. He had to continue. Had to…had to…

               Suddenly, Jim realized how weak he felt. He could almost sleep, if everything didn’t hurt so badly. He shivered violently, trying to catch his breath. Why was he suddenly so cold? He wanted to curl up somewhere and…what? Die, preferably. But that would mean he’d never settle anything with Sherlock. That couldn’t happen. He had to get this _out of him_. They had to finish the game. God, how was it that his body was so cold but his hand was so _hot_?

               Black was creeping into the edges of Jim’s vision at an alarming rate now, effectively extinguishing his rage like a wall of water. Except blackness didn’t have a feeling to it—it was just blackness.

               The criminal sobbed, weakly bringing the knife up to his tattered palm, still pouring a nauseating mixture of silver and red, only to find that he didn’t have the energy to hold it anymore. Jim dropped the instrument with a clang, slumping over the tub and succumbing to the blackness.

(o0o0o0o0)

               John entered 221B to hear a slight rustling. The doctor’s initial, preposterous thought was one involving Anderson on a drugs bust, but then he remembered: Sherlock was hurting. Greg had said as much on the phone, and he knew enough of social cues to leave after he’d been hung up on. So this was either Sherlock or…someone else.

               Heart rate picking up slightly, John cautiously opened his mouth to call out to the detective, only to have him speak first.

               “ _John…”_ Sherlock called weakly, voice catching at the end slightly. Concerned on a far deeper level than he had been before, John rushed into the detective’s bedroom. He stopped in his tracks in the doorway, mouth falling open slightly.

               Sherlock was lying on his bed (at least Lestrade had had the grace to help him off the floor), but he looked… _possessed._ His back was arched slightly and he writhed in clear discomfort, teeth clenched in a grimace against a clearly very present pain. He clutched his Marked hand with a ferocity that turned his knuckles white, holding it to his chest like it was a lifeline.

               “Joh-”

               “Shh shh shh, Sherlock,” the doctor murmured urgently, rushing to his friend’s side, “What hurts?”

               “He’s…he’s _cutting-_ ” the detective’s voice caught again as his body gave a violent jerk, moaning in pain.

               “Okay,” John acknowledged, alarmed, moving in an attempt to steady Sherlock, “Say that again for me? Sherlock, open your eyes.”

               The detective obliged, looking up at the doctor with an expression that hurt to look at, “He’s cutting his Mark,” Sherlock groaned, “John, I can’t…I _can’t_ …” his last word ended in a gasp.

               “Christ,” John muttered, shaking his head, “Sick bastard. Sick, twisted, fucking bastard. What emotions are you getting from his end?”

               “He’s angry,” Sherlock croaked, “Very, very angry. _God_ , it hurts…”

               “You might be getting some of his pain in with yours,” he said gently, trying to figure out how to help with the situation at hand.

               The detective didn’t respond, only continued squirming in anguish. John watched him helplessly for a moment before he remembered his drugstore purchases. It wasn’t much, but something was better than anything.

               “I got you some painkillers,” the doctor said weakly, holding them up even though Sherlock had his eyes shut again, “They won’t help much, but it’s something-”

               “God _damn_ it!” the detective shouted, making John almost drop the drugs.

               “What?” he asked, startled.

               “He’s cutting it _out_ …”

               The doctor didn’t bother to ask how Sherlock could know that; he supposed there were some things about Bonds you could only learn from experience. Not that this was an experience he would wish on anyone.

               “Is he fucking demented?” John asked, starting to get angry at Jim again.

               “Ye… _yes_ …” Sherlock panted, now trying to hold his Marked hand and his head at the same time. It was pitiful.

               “Alright, wait here,” the doctor instructed, “I’m going to get some ice for your head, and some water so you can swallow these,” he rattled the painkillers in their box, “Sound good?”

               John took the lack of response to mean that it did. He rushed to the kitchen, hands and feet steady as he gathered the things he needed. When he returned to the bedroom, Sherlock lie deathly still on the bed, chest barely moving up and down.

               “Sherlock?” he rushed to the detective’s side again, accidentally sloshing some water onto the floor, “Sherlock, are you okay?”

               “Mm hm,” Sherlock answered, voice barely audible.

               “What-? Did he stop?” John asked incredulously.

               “Think so,” the detective’s Marked hand still trembled dangerously, but the rest of his body looked ready to sink into the bed. It already was, in fact.

               The doctor sighed, “I’m still making you take the painkillers.”

               Sherlock didn’t protest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. They’re hurting and it’s awful. I want my babies to kiss just as much as you do. Reviews let you give Jim and Sherlock blankets and hugs and kisses.


	8. Apastron

(3 days later)

 

               Sebastian’s eyelids drooped; he’d done very little sleeping in the last few days, and Moriarty hadn’t offered him any sign of a reprieve from his task yet. Watching for threats was dull work, and as well trained as the sniper was, he was only human, and needed rest. At least in the army he would have been relieved of duty for long enough to have a decent meal and sleep. Criminals were not so generous.

               The sniper stretched. He needed a way to stay awake, while also not distracting himself from his job. Absentmindedly, he tore his gaze from the window to check his phone, and cursed when he saw there were three missed messages. Sebastian’s panic ebbed slightly, however, when he saw they were not from his boss. Still, a close call. He’d have to work on watching that more closely.

               **Proposition for you. Text back if interested.**

Sebastian narrowed his eyes at the first text. There was no signature on it; only an unknown phone number. Jesus, maybe Moriarty really _did_ have people who wanted to unseat him. It was strange to think about anyone having the courage to even interact with the consulting criminal; actually trying to _kill_ him was almost incomprehensible.

               Although…if he thought about it, the sniper wasn’t sure how difficult it could actually be. Were people really _that_ loyal to Moriarty? He only gave them their paychecks. Sebastian was close enough now that it actually seemed doable, if it ever became necessary. The consulting criminal could never overpower him in just physical strength alone…but maybe he was being cocky.

               The sniper glanced down at the other two messages.

               **Stakes changed. Offering a handsome reward for location of Jim Moriarty. Consider carefully.**

**Sebastian Moran, if you value your appendages, take the offer. You have six hours to reply.**

He snorted at the last text. Luckily, it was from only about an hour ago. Damn, whoever was sending these was desperate. The fact that they knew his name was concerning, but not surprising. He’d received threats loads of times before; it was just part of the job. The only thing that made this different was that these killers, whoever they were, were probably _way_ higher up on the hierarchy than the usual jokers who sent him threats.

               Maybe he’d better see what their offer was.

               **What is the reward offered? –SM**

A reply appeared in less than five seconds.

               **Name your price.**

Sebastian shook his head to himself. They’d have to do better than that if they wanted him to betray the king of crime himself.

               **Name yourself. –SM**

There was a short pause that allowed the sniper time to glance out the window. He turned back to his phone when he saw it light up out of the corner of his eye.

               **Call me a benefactor.**

Sebastian inwardly scoffed. _He’d_ call them dramatic.

               **My price is high. –SM**

**I’m willing to pay it.**

**Are you able to pay it? –SM**

**Name it.**

The sniper paused. This could easily become the price of his life. No use for modesty here.

               **200k –SM**

Sebastian waited, but there was still no response after a minute. Hm. He should have known they weren’t really serious. Actually, he could probably get a lot more out of this if he just brought it to Moriarty. Maybe then his loyalty would be proved and his salary raised.

               It was tempting. He’d been sitting here for so long that it hurt his eyes to look _away_ from the window. But going to see Moriarty without permission was…risky. If Boss ended up upset, Sebastian could easily end up destroying his entire life’s work, just in one go. And since this was the big man himself, there wasn’t likelihood of a recovery for his career. However, the possible money this could offer if Moriarty ended up pleased was _mouth watering,_ and it was because of this that the sniper ended up stuffing a firearm in his pocket and leaving for the boss’s flat.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian checked his phone again before knocking on Moriarty’s door. Still no response from the mystery ‘benefactor’, but the glowing screen made the sniper realize something suddenly so obvious, he had to fight against the temptation to hit himself in the face.

               _Why the fuck_ hadn’t he texted Moriarty first? Then he would have had every reason to come over, and there wouldn’t have been this risk of ‘will my boss shoot me for disobeying direct orders’.

               Jesus fucking Christ. Alright. Well, he was here already. Might as well knock. Was that something people did? Knock on the doors of criminal masterminds? God, Sebastian felt more clueless than he ever had in his life. What could he say, though? Jim Moriarty was intimidating. Sebastian wasn’t afraid of, well, anyone. Anyone _except_ Jim Moriarty. Actually, now that he thought about it, would he even be _home_? The criminal probably had dozens of flats scattered around London. Of course, he _had_ been sick. Maybe he was making a base here.

               On the other hand…what if he’d been lying? This was a _genius_. Moriarty wouldn’t be dumb enough to let a rookie like Sebastian know where he was staying, would he? Now that the sniper thought about it, Moriarty probably told him to stay stationed here so that _he_ had a way of knowing where Sebastian was. Not the other way around. The criminal mastermind could be in Cuba right now, for all Moran knew.

               And that being the case…what kinds of things were to be found in the flat of the world’s most dangerous criminal?

               Oh, God. Sebastian could probably find things in there worth more than all of his ancestor’s heirlooms put together. In fact, if he put his entire _family_ together, what was in this flat would probably still be worth more than them. And that was even though this was one of _many_ flats. Plus, how much would people _pay_ to see this stuff?

               A lot. Probably more than the 200k his ‘benefactor’ had unknowingly offered. This was, Sebastian decided, _definitely_ worth risking his life for.

               Licking his lips nervously, the sniper knocked slightly on the door. The noise echoed like a gunshot through the hallway, but Sebastian didn’t care. He listened intently for a response, ears ringing with the effort.

               Nothing.

               Sebastian hadn’t really thought through what he was going to do next, especially given the fact that Moriarty was bound to have dozens of locks on his door. The sniper tried the knob, not surprised when it wouldn’t turn.

               He could leave. He could just go back to his post. If Moriarty came back and saw that all his locks were broken, he would _kill_ Sebastian. Literally. The sniper had heard horrifying things of what the consulting criminal did to people; not even necessarily employees. He’d heard stories about teeth getting ripped out, one by one, of people flayed alive or forced to watch their families hung on butcher hooks. It was stomach churning, and yet…

               The _money_ …

               Making his mind up with a resounding silent ‘fuck it’, Sebastian threw himself up against the door. To his surprise, it gave after only about three tries. A chain skittered across hardwood floors, finally coming to a stop a few feet away from where the sniper stood. Slowly, with one hand on where his gun resided in his jacket, Sebastian closed the door behind him and took a silent step forward. It occurred to him that he might have set an alarm off, but if Moriarty was having trouble with other employees, who was he going to send alarm signals to? The police?

               Sebastian stepped forward a few more paces. He needed to check the entire flat. Make sure no one was here to sneak up on him. If anyone was going to be surprised today, he didn’t want it to be him. Grateful for the carpeting that covered the vast majority of the flat, Moran checked the rest of the living room and kitchen, two closets, and a bathroom. That only left one door, which was presumably the bedroom.

               _Shit._ He was almost home free. Holy fuck, if he got away with this, Sebastian didn’t think his ego would _ever_ deflate. Or his wallet. God _damn_. Robbing a criminal mastermind almost made the sniper wish he would have grandkids to tell this story.

               If he lived long enough. He could easily die as soon as he turned this knob.

               Heart thumping, Sebastian opened the last door. His nostrils were instantly bombarded with the smell of iron, and he winced, a few memories of combat forcing their way to the front of his mind. Stomach churning, the sniper quickly found the source of the smell.

               Jim Moriarty lie curled in on himself at the center of the bed, almost in a fetal position. He was barely recognizable, and not only because he was dressed in a simple shirt and sweatpants. No, what was really throwing Sebastian off was how…dead the criminal mastermind looked.

               The sniper didn’t think he’d ever seen anyone so pale in his _life._ Moriarty didn’t look pale like someone who didn’t get out much—he looked _inhumanly_ white. Like snow. His dark hair looked like a bird’s nest, partially plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes were closed, completely unaware of Sebastian’s presence. A blood covered bandage was poorly wrapped around his right hand (his Marked hand, the sniper wondered?), and old looking stains of red spattered the rest of his clothes, as well.

               He looked…pitiful. It was saddening to Sebastian to look at him. Moran had always hated seeing people sick. He knew he should feel excited right now, but he couldn’t help feeling…bad for Jim. Was that wrong; feeling bad for a murderer? Did Moriarty have anyone to take care of him? Sebastian was a killer, too. Did anyone feel sympathy for _him_ , ever?

               The sniper mentally slapped himself. What was the matter with him? He should smother Moriarty, grab some money and _go._ Or he could always torture him for information; he’d learned a few nifty techniques over the years. But did he have the stomach to use them? Especially on someone so defenseless? Jesus, Jim looked thin. He was so _small_ …

               Fuck. Mother of fucking shit. Sebastian was going to have to help him. Cautiously, like he was approaching a lion, the sniper made his way to the bed.

               Oh, God. He’d been hoping the criminal would wake up by himself. Now it looked like that was going to be Sebastian’s problem.

               Ever so slowly, the sniper leaned towards the sleeping mastermind, placing a hand that suddenly felt far too big on his shoulder, and gave it a gentle shake.

               Moriarty jolted violently, eyes instantly snapping open and locking onto Sebastian. For a brief, surprising moment, the criminal looked terrified, before recognition set in. After that, dark, chilling rage flooded his dark irises, making the sniper suppress a shiver. Moriarty shook violently, and sweat beaded on his forehead, but that didn’t take away from the intimidating image at all. He reminded Sebastian of a caged, cornered animal.

               It suddenly occurred to the sniper that he would have to speak first. Jim’s eyes were boring into him like knives, despite the very obvious pain he was in.

               “Um, hi Boss…” Sebastian started awkwardly, heart thumping loudly, “I know I’ve left my post, but I wanted to show you these texts I got…”

               He flinched when he looked back into Moriarty’s eyes, almost losing his train of thought.

               _Oh, God. He knows._

Just as Sebastian was about to open his mouth to beg forgiveness, a strangled noise escaped Moriarty’s throat, catching both men off guard. Now that the sniper really looked, Jim was actually breathing pretty heavily…

               “Uh, Boss-”

               “Just shut up, you fucking imbecile,” Moriarty hissed, obviously stifling another small moan, “Do you know what happens to men who leave their posts?”

               Sebastian had a number of ideas on this subject, but he was fairly sure, with how strained the criminal’s voice sounded, that he didn’t have to worry about any of them. This calming thought started to bring back the sniper’s practice in the criminal world.

               “Boss, I deeply apologize for this. I can guarantee that it won’t happen aga-”

               “WHAT DID I SAY?” suddenly Jim was screaming, but the volume of his voice appeared to affect him more than Sebastian. The criminal winced slightly after the outburst, then returned to staring at his employee with nothing less than pure hatred, “You came here to either kill me or get money. Don’t try to lie. I will text you a number when you walk out of that door. If you give the number to the agent I specify, you will be paid a handsome sum. That is the price of loyalty, Moran. If you decide to reject this offer, I can promise you that money will be exchanged, but you will no longer be taking place in the transaction. Do I make myself clear?”

               Shit…he was desperate. Jim Moriarty was actually _desperate_. He needed to _buy_ loyalty. Sebastian could just kill him. He could take the money or the number or whatever and do it. He really, truly could. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity. He’d never have to worry about money again. He’d killed countless people before; how was this any different?

               The sniper turned back to the man in front of him, and he had his answer.

               The difference was that he could hear each and every breath shudder through Moriarty’s body. He could see agonizing pain reflected in the criminal’s eyes, which were now trained on his Marked (now bloodied) hand. Sebastian could make out every bead of sweat on his forehead, almost smell the fever in the air…

               This was personal. Sebastian had killed one person that way before, and he’d promised himself he’d never do it again.

               And if he took the money…then what? He’d be rich, but Jim would remember when he was well again who was the employee he’d had to buy loyalty from. He’d have the records. Better to pretend that it was all a fever induced dream.

               He met Moriarty’s eyes again. They were accusing. Suspicious. A challenge. He was ready to fight Sebastian; the sniper could see it in his every expression.

               “Sorry for waking you up, Boss.”

               Sebastian got up slowly and walked towards the door, listening to it click behind him.

              

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing Sebastian this way you guys I’m sorry. Stoic hardened criminals are nice but I like dorky clueless young Seb a lot better. Whoops. If you’d like to see who I cast as him, check my blog’s Cosmic Love tag.


	9. Cepheid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Torture trigger warning.

               As quietly as he possibly could, John pushed open the door to Sherlock’s bedroom.

 _This is mad_ , John thought, _This is really, truly mad, and Sherlock is suffering because of it._

               In the three days since Sherlock had initially received his Mark, they’d done all they could to keep the detective’s new dirty secret hidden. The only person outside of 221B who to their knowledge knew about the Bond, outside of Moriarty, was Lestrade. Of course, John thought ignoring the Bond was the dumbest idea he’d ever heard of, but what was the alternative? The doctor hated to admit it, but Sherlock had a point; if he sought out Moriarty and allowed the Bond to form, it could just as likely do damage to him as if he’d gone this route and strained it. At least this way, the detective was himself. This way, he wouldn’t have to share in Moriarty’s twisted mind.

               Rather, that’s what John had been _telling_ himself for the past twenty four hours. Sherlock had been in pain during the beginning of the process, but now the doctor was tempted to call an ambulance. For about half an hour after the detective had taken his painkillers, he’d complained only of a mild headache; nothing near to what he’d had initially. However, that was the best things had gotten. Sherlock’s headache, if you could even call it such a mild word, had gotten progressively worse to the point that he was now mostly communicating in moans. John also suspected he was running a fever (for God knows what reason) and, on top of everything, hadn’t eaten since a few days _before_ he’d gone to meet Jim on the rooftop. The doctor kept catching himself glancing at his cell, then back to the detective, who lie just about dead to the world in his bed. In fact, Sherlock _could_ very possibly die if this continued on like this for much longer, which was why John had decided to fetch him some water from the kitchen, ready for another fruitless attempt to coax liquid past the detective’s lips. At least this way, he could feel like he was doing _something._

               It hurt John’s heart to look at his friend. Sherlock _rarely_ got sick, despite all the shit he put his immune system through, so it was disturbing to see the detective lying so still, pale forehead covered with a sheen of sweat. It was alien; as wrong as if he’d suddenly decided to dye his hair blond…only so, so much worse.

               “Sherlock,” John shook his friend’s shoulder slightly; had he always been this thin? God, it was like he was already dead and decaying…

               A terrible idea suddenly struck the doctor in the gut, and he set the glass of water down to shake Sherlock again, more vigorously this time.

               “Sherlock?” a note of panic cut through John’s voice, which was steadily rising as the detective continued to be unresponsive, “Sherlock! _Shit_ , Sherlock, wake up! _Wake up!_ Jesus… _Jesus…_ ”

               John’s ears were ringing, his breaths hollow as his hands suddenly steadied, their usual tremor disappearing to be replaced with an eerie calm. The doctor silently prayed as he placed two fingers on the bottom of Sherlock’s wrist, begging God or Satan or _someone_ to help him find a pulse there.

               He waited, holding his breath.

               A quarter, then a half, then a full second passed. It was just as John gave up hope and started to remove his fingers that a slight, _slight_ beat thrummed against his skin.

               At first, he didn’t believe it. He might be hallucinating. But when the doctor pressed his fingers to Sherlock’s wrist once more, he felt it again. The detective was _alive_.

               A sigh that shuddered through John’s entire body escaped the doctor’s lungs, and he stood up so quickly it made him slightly dizzy. Suddenly, it was very clear to him that this couldn’t go on for any longer. Sherlock’s life wasn’t worth risking for anything. The doctor marched over to his phone and called the only contact that could help them.

               Mycroft Holmes.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian winced at the buzzing of his phone. 13. That made _13_ texts he’d received within an hour of leaving Moriarty’s flat. He didn’t even have to look at the screen to know they were all from his mysterious ‘benefactor’. The sniper continued to drum his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair he sat in, staring at his phone like it was a puzzle that would have an answer for him if he looked at it long enough. Unfortunately, morality wasn’t so easily decipherable.

               He’d taken pity on Moriarty now, but where was that going to get him? Sebastian wanted more than anything to avoid the streets for the remainder of his life, and if he jeopardized his career, that wish could go ungranted. Visiting the criminal had likely destroyed any chance he had of being in Moriarty’s employ, so if Jim didn’t die, he was either dead or broke. Or worse. Sebastian still was terrified of soon becoming one of the stories whispered about what happened to those who crossed Jim Moriarty.

               The _smart_ thing to do would have been to kill the bastard, take enough money to live off of, and run. Sebastian _should_ have done that. But _no._ Instead, he’d actually _taken pity on_ the criminal mastermind, and now he might have to pay with his life. Literally or metaphorically. The sniper still couldn’t believe his own stupidity. He’d never been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but _dammit_ he was better than this! Jim would give him no such pity if he ever recovered. Pity didn’t exist in the criminal world. Only winners and losers. And blood. Lots and lots of blood.

               So now, Sebastian really only had one way of saving his ass. He had to text back his ‘benefactor’. The only issue was whether it was a trap or not. The sniper could very easily fall into the grip of some other boss’s employees, who would doubtless torture him for information on Moriarty that they could sell for a quick penny—he’d seen how these things went down, Sebastian just hadn’t ever thought it would happen to him.

               The sniper forced himself to man up and scroll through his texts, eyes resting on the last one. It was an address.

               A bright red flag instantly shot up in Sebastian’s mind. If they wanted to meet him in person, this was _definitely_ a trap. But then again, what other choice did he have? Wait to be slaughtered by whoever Moriarty sent after him? Still, that didn’t mean he had an excuse to proceed without caution. The sniper’s fingers flew across his phone’s keyboard.

               **How do I know this isn’t an ambush?**

There was a moment’s delay before an answer appeared, making Sebastian’s brow furrow.

               **You don’t.**

“Shit,” the sniper cursed under his breath. Well, he’d already behaved like a dumbass in everything he’d done today. Might as well finish off strong. Deciding not to waste any more time, Sebastian stuffed two firearms and a knife into his jacket. He still felt a little bit naked after that, so for good measure, he added another small blade underneath the hem of his jeans. The sniper gave his flat one last glance over before stepping out the door. It actually wasn’t half bad of a place. Too bad he would probably never be coming back.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian kept his eyes vigilant as he turned onto a slightly less crowded street. The drive to London was, the sniper had found, much shorter when he was dreading his destination. It had seemed like _ages_ when he’d been in the car with Moriarty. Today, he’d told the cabbie to let him off at an address roughly two blocks from the actual one his ‘benefactor’ had texted him, for obvious reasons. Though he supposed it was ironic he even bothered to take that measure, since he _was_ making a stupid decision anyway.

               “Mycroft, he’s dying!”

A stout blond man was shouting into his phone, striding past the sniper as though he was marching off to war, even swinging his free arm as he went. His gait almost looked like that of a soldier.

Sebastian heard a few more snippets of the quickly fading conversation as the distance between him and the talker increased. Among the words he heard were ‘brother’ ‘Bond’ and something that sounded like ‘Bart’s’. The sniper assumed that meant this bloke, whoever he was, was dealing with Soulmate drama. Poor sap, but Moran, to be quite frank, didn’t care about a stranger’s problems. Much less when they involved domestic shit like Soulmates. He had just started to turn his attention once more to the path in front of him when he heard the one word that could have stopped him in his tracks.

“ _Moriarty”_

Turning around, Sebastian was pleased to see that the man hadn’t managed to put much distance between them. He was now waiting at a crosswalk, still clearly livid as he ranted into his cell phone. The sniper cautiously started in his direction, deciding that his benefactor could wait a few extra moments. Maybe this would get him some information and help him save his ass.

“I don’t see why— _yes_ , Mycroft, I did. Yes. No. He’s…he said he would try. Whatever the bloody Hell that means....But I still don’t understand—and you’re _relying_ on this? He’s a criminal! What are you doing to do when you’ve got him? What then?”

Sebastian made sure to keep an unassuming distance behind the man, but still stay close enough that he could hear the conversation. He tuned out all noises of traffic around them, honing in on the blond’s words.

“I’m headed there now. No. No, there weren’t any. None that could—I wanted to walk.”

There was a long pause.

“Just please do it quickly....Yes, I know. We can’t trust—this is Moriarty, Mycroft…What do you mean?”

The sniper noted a tinge of panic in the man’s voice as he stopped in his tracks, and Sebastian hastily copied the motion, starting to turn around so his face wouldn’t be visible.

“Alright. Just bring him quickly,” Moran heard the beep of the end call button being pressed, and started walking away from the blond. He felt eyes on his back all the way down the street.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian squinted up at the warehouse in front of him. He could feel someone watching him, but when his eyes searched the numerous, dark holes the place had instead of windows, no movement caught his attention.

               The sniper shivered, suddenly aware of how cold it was today. He wished he’d dressed warmer, but scarves and thick coats weren’t the best if he would have to fight or run. Being weighed down during a life or death situation was much worse than being a little chilly, in Sebastian’s opinion.

Silently closing the distance between himself and the large, rusted doors in front of him, the sniper pushed them open with a creak that seemed to shake the entire building, always keeping one hand ready to whip out a weapon if he needed it.

               He stepped inside and blinked a few times, waiting for his eyes to get used to the dim light. The air around him was damp, but still frigid enough to make his every breath visible. Water was dripping somewhere, echoing off the concrete walls, just as Sebastian’s footsteps did when he took a few steps forward.

The place was completely abandoned. Shallow puddles of grey water were splashed periodically across the concrete floor, and many of the towering walls around him were cracking and shrouded in shadows.

Sebastian looked up at the ceiling. Light from the cloudy London sky shined down through the numerous gaps in the roof, shaped and distorted by irregular beams and peeling insulation. What looked like a trio of bats was huddled upside down on a particularly rusty looking structure. This was the last thing the sniper’s mind processed before everything went dark with a loud clang.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “How someone as dreadfully stupid as you fell into place as Moriarty’s first in command, I will never understand.”

               A snide, drawling voice was the first thing Sebastian heard when consciousness started creeping back into his mind. The sniper’s head throbbed where he’d been knocked out, and when he tried to lift a hand to check the damage, he found his arms were firmly strapped in place. Perfect.

               “Open your eyes, Moran. We haven’t all day to waste.”

               Sebastian groaned quietly and forced his heavy eyelids open. There wasn’t much more to see than when he’d had them closed. The sniper was strapped, arms and legs, uncomfortably to a heavy wooden chair, which was screwed into the floor. He was surrounded by mirrors, and a simple table was directly in front of him. The room was about as dark as the warehouse had been, but here, he wasn’t so alone. There was just enough light shining down from a single bulb on the ceiling that the sniper could make out the faces of two people in front of him.

               The first, a balding, wiry man with a nose and eyes like a hawk’s was staring directly at Sebastian with a worrisome mixture of contempt, disgust, and great annoyance. The other was a nondescript figure with a stiff posture that screamed one thing and one thing only: government.

               _Shit._

               “Mr. Moran, do you know why we’ve brought you here today?” the first man asked, teeth gleaming in a grin the sniper could only describe as sarcastic.

               Sebastian was silent.

               “Come now, we don’t have all day,” the man prompted, smile disappearing, “We’ve wasted half an hour getting here, and a bit more, thanks to your little eavesdropping session with my good friend John. You wouldn’t want to trouble Osric with bringing out his tools” he nodded to a table to the sniper’s left that had previously gone unnoticed, “Would you?”

               Sebastian remembered following the blond man who’d mentioned Moriarty. He should have known that hearing the criminal’s name during was too much of a coincidence to be real. Noting a slight glint of something silver on the furniture in question, the sniper quickly shook his head no. He wanted to try and avoid losing any fingers today, if he could afford it.

               “Good. Now answer the question,” the man tilted his head to the side, eyes glinting expectantly.

               Moran swallowed, summoning his courage, “First, tell me this: where do your loyalties lie?”

               The man laughed; a chilly, humorless noise. His dark eyes regarded the sniper with thinly veiled irritation, “Osric,” he said without looking at the silent statue beside him, “Why don’t we give Mr. Moran a good shave, while I answer him?”

               Like a robot, the suited man strode to the table and, to Sebastian’s horror, lifted a wicked, curved knife that looked like something straight out of a slasher film. The sniper leaned away as he was approached with it.

               “Now, what _is_ loyalty, we must ask ourselves,” the man started, seemingly unaware that ‘Osric’ was now rolling up Sebastian’s sleeve, preparing him to be chopped up. The sniper bit his lip, digging his nails into the arm of the chair.

               “No, you don’t want to do that,” he interrupted himself, giving Moran a chastising glance, “It’ll only make it hurt more. As I was saying, to define loyalty, one has to-”

               “Just _get on with it_!” Sebastian exploded, earning him an infuriatingly smug look from the man. All the sniper could focus on was the metal now gently pressed against the skin of his arm.

               “Do you have somewhere to be, Mr. Moran?” the man quirked an eyebrow.

               “No, just-” Sebastian huffed in frustration, “Who do you work for? Did Moriarty send you? Did one of his enemies? What do you want with _me_?” The sniper was panting by the end of his rant, feeling just as stupid as he did afraid.

               “Oh, Mr. Moran,” the man gave a sigh that sounded genuinely tired, “I believe we both know the answer to that last question. I assume you knew what you were signing up for when you entered that warehouse?”

               The sniper nodded, “You wanted to know where Moriarty is.”

               “And?”

               “And what?”

               “Where is he?”

               Sebastian frowned, and beady eyes didn’t break contact with his.

               “Mr. Moran,” the man started impatiently, “My name is Mycroft Holmes. I occupy a minor position in the British government, and my only loyalty is devoted to Great Britain. That being the case, I suggest you answer the question.”

               _Shit_.

               Sebastian had never been caught before, as much as he’d done for the underground. He’d always thought if it happened it would involve a fine for carrying an unregistered firearm. Not being tortured by some government goon _across the Atlantic ocean_.

               The sniper eyed the knife on his arm, “What does that do?” he asked shakily.

               “It peels off layers of skin, easy as if you were an onion. We go down a few layers until blood just starts to show, then bring out the salt if you don’t talk in three, two-”

               Sebastian blurted out the address, and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when Osric retreated, putting the knife back on the table and returning to stand beside his boss. Mycroft smiled again, making the sniper want to shiver.

               “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Moran,” he started making his way to the exit, presumably behind Sebastian, who craned his neck to the side as Mycroft passed him.

               “So, uh, what happens to me now?”

               Mycroft’s footsteps paused, “Osric, do me a favor and phone Anthea. Give Mr. Moran a drink and bring him home. We have no further use for him.”

               Sebastian was sure he hadn’t heard right, “Wait, you’re _letting me go_?” he asked incredulously.

               “Mr. Moran,” Mycroft entered his view again, “The British government has more important things to do than imprison rogue ex United States Army snipers. You should know this firsthand, being in the employ of Mr. Moriarty. There isn’t much of a reason to imprison you, especially when I entrust we can count on your help in the future. Or is that an incorrect assumption?”

               “But…I…” Sebastian sputtered, “I mean, no, that’s not incorrect. But I broke the law!”

               Mycroft’s eyes were black in the dimmed light, “Oh, Mr. Moran,” he said softly, “You don’t honestly think the government still uses those, do you?”

               Sebastian felt a prick in his neck, and everything went black.             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I don’t update as much as I should. I’m trying my hardest to get these up quickly, but I’m picky about quality. Sorry there wasn’t much of Sherly and Jim in this chapter. Next time, k? Also, I stole the torture method Mycroft uses from Ozymanreis. He used it in one of his fics first (please forgive me Oz I forgot which one).
> 
> Oh, and in case any of you are having trouble picturing a young Moran, since you have Michael Fassbender permanently fancasted as most of Tumblr does, I 100% cast Sebastian Stan as Moran in this story. 
> 
> Finally, I’m also considering making an 8tracks playlist for this. Is that something you guys would be interested in or no?


	10. Eclipse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts, mention of bullying, and mention of self harm.

_Jim studied his surroundings with fathomless eyes. He would recognize the building in front of him anywhere. Despite having lived in countless different cities around Europe, something about the grey walls in front of him, surrounded by a dull blanket of prickly grass, would be burned into his memory forever._

_The criminal felt sick to his stomach, looking at his old school. His heart rate picked up slightly in apprehension, and he glanced around himself nervously, making sure he was alone. It was embarrassing that he even felt a need to do it; Jim was weak, was what he was._

_A_ victim _, he thought to himself with disgust, shaking his head. No. He_ refused _to be a victim._

_But what else could he be? That fence wasn’t a fence; it was a weapon. That wasn’t a pavement; it was pain. Blood. Bruises no one would ask him about. Jim could pick out each and every place he’d been hurt here, as if he’d mentally bookmarked them. Bookmarks, he mused, were easier to remove than what he had. A stain would be a superior metaphor._

_Slowly, having a glance around periodically to make sure no one came up behind him, the criminal made his way to the heavy doors of the entryway. It seemed only seconds before he stood directly in front of them. Pale fingers closed around the cold metal handle of the door, and swung it open in a single, smooth motion. It was lighter than Jim remembered._

_Suddenly, the scene changed, and all the breath seemed to be sucked from the criminal’s lungs. Reluctantly, Jim breathed in, trying to ignore the way the chlorine seemed to make the air heavier. It made it dirty; poisonous. More than anything, it made the criminal_ remember _, and that was something he hated doing._

_Jim took a few more steps onto the slippery tiled floor, watching the water reflect patterns onto the ceiling and walls. He walked until he reached the exact place it had happened, where he turned to look directly over the water, right at the place Carl Powers had died._

_The criminal remembered hearing one student talk about how he had choked, flailing helplessly until he finally sunk under, down, down, down, to the bottom of the pool. Jim hoped the chlorine had burned Carl’s lungs as it filled them. He hoped Powers had died tasting blood. God knew he’d made Jim feel that more than once._

_In fact, it made one death for Carl seem a little bit too merciful._

_The criminal shivered. This was where he’d almost killed Sherlock the first time. What a shame that would have been. They’d never have gotten to enjoy their little game. Of course, now that was ruined, anyway…_

_Consciousness tugged at Jim’s mind gently, but something anchored the criminal to where he stood. It felt like threads were pulling him deeper into his dream, and it wasn’t until Jim looked to his left that he saw what was truly causing the sensation._

_A boa constrictor had wrapped itself around his left hand, and was fighting to bring the criminal up towards the beam it wrapped the other half of its body around. Its scales gleamed in the dim light, and Jim watched them, transfixed for a moment until his shoes slipped slightly._

_The criminal swallowed nervously, flexing his hand and trying to pull away from the snake’s grip. The thing only gripped him tighter, to the point where he knew it was cutting off circulation. It was now clear that he was no longer being dragged parallel to, but_ towards _the pool itself._

_Jim was panicking, tugging with all his might, doing all he could to get out of the animal’s hold on him. He sunk his nails into its scales, he thrashed and dug his heels into the floor as best he could, but eventually, just when the criminal started to pull with two hands, he was thrown into the icy water._

_Fangs sunk into Jim’s hands and he struggled, sinking deeper and deeper into the mockingly bright water as coils of snake wrapped around his neck, crushing all the air from him and resulting in a quick decision to succumb to death._

_What was the point in fighting, anyway? Was it not just easier this way? Wasn’t as if anyone would miss him. Not that he cared about that. People were useless anyway. Boring._

_The criminal quietly sank, no longer struggling. He’d be losing consciousness in two or three minutes, but until then, Jim supposed he could appreciate how quiet it was down here. In fact, it was peaceful enough to sleep…_

_Suddenly, his neck was free, and something was pulling Jim up, the water rushing past him, until he was free of it altogether, breaking the surface and choking violently. It was only after a moment that he saw the face of his rescuer, all cheekbones and icy blue eyes._

_Holmes._

_The criminal just stared, mouth agape, breathing heavily. Sherlock stared back, in that infuriatingly stoic way of his._

_“You…you…” Jim stammered, wishing he’d been left under the water. So much easier…_

_The detective cocked a prompting eyebrow, and for some bizarre reason, the criminal’s stomach fluttered._

_“…saved me. How thoughtful,” Jim attempted to regain a bit of ground, doing a poor job of slipping into his usual erratic persona._

_Suddenly, Sherlock’s face split into a cruel grin, and the criminal noticed with horror that he had_ acne _, igniting his jawline and cheeks with an angry red that drew attention away from his blue eyes…_

_Actually, they weren’t blue anymore. Now they were brown._

_In fact, Jim was no longer staring at a detective at all, but at his old childhood bully, Carl Powers. The criminal’s hand shook and he, in spite of himself, winced in anticipation for what he knew was coming._

_“Thinking is for_ freaks _,” Carl sneered, tossing Jim back towards the water. The only difference was, this time he just kept falling._

(o0o0o0o0)

               The criminal jolted awake with nothing more than a slight twitch, sending a single, deep, pang of pain through his skull. The first thing Jim noticed when he started to wake wasn’t really a _thing_ at all. Rather, it was the absence of one. He’d braced himself for the return of the torture he’d endured before falling asleep, even going so far as to grit his teeth.

               The perplexing thing was that nothing came.

               Jim waited a few beats of his heart, still not trusting the truth he was being presented with. _How_ could he possibly be feeling better? Not just his head, but his hand…his hand that had been an infected mess the last time he’d been conscious. He’d gone to sleep unable to even _think_ for the pain throbbing through his skull, shivering, feverish, and weak. Not to mention his right hand missing half of its skin. Now even _that_ didn’t hurt.

               Well. This was…odd. Not that the criminal was complaining. Maybe he was almost dead, and he’d be back asleep in a few seconds…permanently. Was a spontaneous recovery even humanly _possible_ for something this serious?

               Jim sighed sleepily, a deep, contented sound. Whatever the case was, he was just grateful for the peace. He’d almost forgotten what that felt like. The criminal sank deeper into the mattress beneath him, coaxing sleep back to the forefront of his mind as he focused on warmth of his body and the soft blankets covering him.

               _Wait._

               Had…had Jim been underneath blankets when he’d passed out? He’d been running a fever. Was it possible that oaf Sebastian had put them on him? But what would be his motivation for that? He’d tried his hardest to frighten the sniper away. Was it possible that he was _actually_ stupid enough to stick around after that? Had he not heard the stories?

               As he pondered this, the criminal’s forehead creased slightly in concentration, and he froze.

               Something that felt _oddly_ human was pressed against the front of his skull. Now that Jim thought about it, his hair wasn’t long enough to be tickling his forehead where it was now.

               Had Sebastian…fallen asleep with him? Jim had never been religious, but at that thought, he sent a silent prayer _somewhere_ to keep that idea from ever becoming reality.

               But who the _fuck_ could be sleeping with him?

               The criminal flexed his previously injured palm and noticed, now more than a little alarmed, that his right was _definitely_ entwined with another hand.

               What the _Hell_ was happening?

               Every inch of him suddenly wide awake, Jim opened his eyes, and instantly jerked away from the figure next to him so violently that he had to grab the table next to the bed to keep from falling off.

               _Sherlock_.

               The detective seemed to still be deeply sleeping, breaths drawn out and even. Apparently he was undisturbed by the criminal’s sudden movement. Was he drugged? Was _Jim_ drugged?

               Jim studied his surroundings, starting to panic. The lights were off, but everything in the small room they were in was white enough that it was easy to see. An uncomfortable looking chair stood guard next to the cheap double bed, while a small, barren table was directly on the criminal’s left. The rest of the room seemed to be filled with equipment-

               _Hospital_.

               Sherlock frowned in his sleep, twitching the hand that had been warmed by Jim’s a moment ago, and, horrorstruck, the criminal looked down at his own palm, mouth falling open in disbelief.

               His skin was smooth and unblemished, with a perfectly intact, silver Mark curling its way from the center of his hand, all the way to his fingers.

               The criminal blinked, not believing his eyes. He’d _cut that out_. He’d seen the blood dripping down the side of the tub. He’d felt nauseous and dizzy and _dammit_ , it shouldn’t be back. Did someone stitch the wretched thing back onto him when he’d been passed out? Was that something _Sebastian_ would do? Probably not, but what about Jo? Oh, that bitch had better run, because if she was responsible for this, she was going to-

               Sherlock stretched, rolling onto his back and causing Jim to lose his train of thought. He looked thin. One would _assume_ that the detective’s precious doctor would have made him eat something, but apparently not. The criminal felt a sort of foreign confusion at this, and it wasn’t until a minute later, staring at Sherlock and watching his brow crease as he woke up, that Jim realized the implications of this.

               Nothing short of terrified, the criminal leaned a little bit closer to the detective, turning his palm over and watching as it gleamed in the dim light.

               _Oh, God, no._

               Foreheads touching when he’d woken up. Marked hands entwined as well. Alien senses of emotion. Double bed. There was only one kind of hospital room that offered _that_ amenity.

               Jim was afraid to even _think_ the word. His heartbeat sped up and his hands shook as he realized the full shame of what had happened to him.

               _Bonded_.

               Just as he thought the word, Sherlock started awake next to him, fixing a stare on the criminal that could cut diamond. Jim glared back, trying to calm himself down and failing completely. The detective glanced around himself, then down to his hand. What had once been suspicion quickly transformed into abhorrence as Sherlock’s mouth fell open, gaze slowly and painfully moving from his Marked hand to Jim.

               The criminal said the first thing that came to mind:

               “Sleep well?”

               Jim hit the floor before he had time to react, all the air pushed from his lungs in a heavy ‘oof!’ The criminal stared passively up at the man who pinned his arms down on either side, eyes burning with nothing less than pure hatred.

               “What are you going to do?” Jim asked, forcing his voice into the soft tone he knew terrified so many, “Kill me? Killing me means killing you, Sherly. Or, now it does. You know how that might upset your little pet.”

               Sherlock seethed, not breaking eye contact, “Stop.”

               The criminal suddenly felt very tired, and ended up obeying the command. He wondered if that was just because of the Bond. Jim had expected for Sherlock to say something more, but instead he just shook his head, as if to himself, before getting off of the criminal and stalking over to the lone chair in the room.

               Jim watched him for a moment from the floor before getting up, shivering. It was cold, being so far from the detective…

               _No_ , the criminal scolded himself. He was _not_ gay. And even if he was, he would never harbor such feelings for _Sherlock_. What they had was beyond such ordinary measures as _romance_. Or at least, it _had_ been, before the detective had decided to ruin everything.

               “So is this it, then?” Sherlock suddenly snapped, now glaring at Jim from the chair, “This is your new play?”

               The criminal decided to play along, even though what he really wanted was to curl up in bed again and go back to sleep.

               _Preferably_ _with Sherlock_ , a voice whispered from the corner of his mind that Jim worked very quickly to stifle.

               “What’s the matter?” he murmured darkly, “Is the Virgin scared, now that the game involves sex?”

               “This is more than sex,” Sherlock growled, “This is a mental Bond that neither of us can ever get rid of.”

               A delightful idea suddenly occurred to Jim, “Unless…” he prompted, eyes suddenly alight with anticipation.

               “Unless,” Sherlock sneered, “We die.”

               “You’re smarter than you look,” the criminal cooed, leaning against the table, “Surely, it must be a better premise than spending the rest of your life with little old me.”

               Sherlock shook his head, everything about him silently screaming hate. A deathly quiet befell the room, the two consultants taking in what had just been said. The detective closed his eyes, assuming a thinking pose.

               Of course, they had to die now, didn’t they? All they had to do was sneak out of their room and up to the roof…assuming they were at Bart’s.

               _…Have to get to John. Was this his idea? He can be smart, but_ why _did he have to let his emotions get in the way_ this time _? Now I don’t have a choice. Strangle Moriarty. No. Call Mycroft. Actually, he was probably in on this. Maybe this is his fault, not John’s. Mind palace…that might help._

Jim stared at an unassuming Sherlock, mouth agape. He could not possibly be hearing what he thought he was. But sure enough, in a corner of his mind the criminal hadn’t known existed before today, he could see the detective starting to navigate a series of hallways, doors stretching as far as the eye could see…

               Did Sherlock even notice? Did he have the same access to Jim’s thoughts that Jim had to his?

               The detective’s eyes instantly snapped open, fixated on the criminal.

               _Damn._             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Official playlist for this fic is on 8tracks, under my same username. It has the same title as the fic. I may add/remove songs as I see fit. It's a work in progress.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy this new chapter, and I’ll see you next time. Leave me thoughts/hopes/dreams/musings?


	11. Phases

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for suicidal thoughts.

               Sherlock had been less horrified when Moriarty had told him to kill himself. That had been disappointing, but nowhere near the repellence brought to him by the criminal knowing his thoughts. Of course, the detective knew, logically, this had to happen if the Bond formed completely. John was no fool—he knew the signs of a strong Bond when he saw them. That was the main reason he’d wanted to _avoid_ allowing the Bond to form with Moriarty. Now how was he supposed to win the game? His mind was his weapon; if the criminal knew his every thought, he knew Sherlock’s entire battle plan, his entire—

               A disturbing snicker brought the detective back to the dark room he currently sat in. He fixed Moriarty with a stare that communicated a single basic message that was impossible to articulate vocally. Jim was insane. A monster. Sherlock hated him with every bone in his body, and no amount of words could express the depth of that feeling.

               _Oh, wait,_ the detective thought cheekily, _you can hear that, can’t you?_

               That was the only upside to this. At least Sherlock shared Jim’s advantage. But he was so erratic that it really didn’t mean much. The two of them were stuck; trapped in this horrible, horrible dance they’d created. It was an armistice; only both of them would perish. No peace treaties were getting signed in this war.

               Moriarty shook his head, grinning gleefully at the detective and making his stomach lurch, “ _That_ ,” he mused, “Is fascinating.”

               “Cameras in the flat weren’t enough?” Sherlock arched a caustic eyebrow, “You needed a constant feed.”

               Jim’s face went dangerously blank, “Can’t see you naked with just your thoughts,” he said monotonously.

               Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He _hated_ this topic. The media gave him enough trouble over it—oh, _damn_ , that was right. How in God’s name was he going to keep this from the general public?

               “Can’t you?” the detective parried lamely, hating the way Moriarty smirked at his obvious discomfort. The mischievous glint in the criminal’s eyes quickly dissipated, however, leaving nothing but darkness. He stared at Sherlock blankly.

               “You and I both know what has to happen,” the criminal murmured, starting to make his way towards the stoic detective, “You wanted to jump,” he urged, moving closer until his breath was hot on Sherlock’s neck, “And you want it now more than ever. Finish the game. Don’t be a fool.”

               The detective wanted more than anything to have a counter argument ready. He wished there was a clever loophole only he could see. But ever since being Marked, he’d pondered this problem to no avail. There didn’t seem to be any tricks to pull, this time.

               But that didn’t mean he had to let Moriarty know. At least, not out loud. Not yet. He still had his pride.

               “I think,” Sherlock said slowly, “That you’re a fool.”

               The madman appeared unfazed by the insult, “Darling, you can say what you want about me,” he purred, “But nothing is going to change reality.”

               “And what _is_ that, to you?” the detective turned around slightly to look his aggressor straight in the eye, “Reality?”

               Sherlock watched the rise and fall of Jim’s chest for a few moments as he waited for a response. If the criminal got his way, that action would stop permanently in a short time for both of them. The detective couldn’t see a single sign of doubt in Moriarty’s features as he answered.

               “Boring.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Precisely two seconds after Jim stated the word, the door sprung open, bathing the room in a blinding white light. The criminal quickly stood up, taking a step back from Sherlock and sitting on the detective’s side of the bed. A tall male nurse with unremarkable features and warm hazel eyes flicked the lights in the room on, grinning at the now wincing pair of men in the room as if they were the best thing to happen to him all day. To the criminal’s dismay, he was carrying a clipboard piled high with papers and _pamphlets._ Ever darkening Jim’s mood was the fact that John Watson and Mycroft Holmes walked in the room behind him.

               “Sherlock,” there was obvious concern in Watson’s voice as he crossed the small room towards the detective. Jim swung his legs onto the bed, lying against the headboard. He could already tell this was going to be a long conversation. “Are you…?” John glanced back towards the criminal before turning away again, “How do you fee-”

               “Fantastic,” Sherlock interrupted, _I’m sharing a mind with a lunatic, I’ll continue to share it for the rest of my life, and someone took my coat._

The detective’s thoughts made Jim sorely miss his Westwood suits. The generic hospital clothes he wore now were bleached white and unflattering. Not to mention thin—it was freezing in here. Who the Hell had even _changed_ him and Sherlock out of their old clothes?

               Did Sherlock _honestly_ think him a lunatic?

               _Yes_ , the detective’s thoughts answered him, and Jim frowned.

               “Well!” the cheery nurse broke a silence that the criminal hadn’t realized was there, “You certainly _should_ be feeling fantastic. Honestly, in the Soulmate wing, you two are a bit of a miracle right now.”

               Another silence fell. Evidently, he was waiting to be urged on. After a few seconds of quiet, however, he continued on his own.

               “Ahem, well. First things first, you _are_ Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty, correct?”

               “Ah,” Jim spoke up shyly, crossing his arms in a façade of insecurity, “I’m not actually Jim Moriarty. I’m Rich-”

               “Oh, save it,” Mycroft drawled, “They know. You’re under the name Jim Moriarty here and your room is under the highest surveillance. No use faking it anymore.”

               The criminal’s gaze darkened, and he chose his next words carefully, “Don’t do anything you’ll regret.”

               The eldest Holmes smiled dryly, and Jim watched John’s mouth fall open, horrorstruck, from the corner of his eye, “We’ll talk later.”

               The criminal turned back to the cheerful nurse, “Fine. Jim Moriarty and Sherlock Holmes. That’s us.”

               _Wonder what they had to do to this poor sod to assign him to us,_ Sherlock thought.

               _Nothing. He’s probably just ignorant,_ Jim answered without thinking, _Fuck._

               _Shut up_ , the detective snipped. The criminal didn’t answer this time.

               “Alright! Well, when we got you two in here, none of the staff thought you were going to make it. You stretched the Bond far longer than is safe, and for most people, what you did would have resulted in brain damage.”

               He paused for emphasis.

               “Em, but you two must have a quite spectacularly strong Bond, because once we got you two together, it formed perfectly. I mean,” the nurse shook his head, positively beaming at them, “I’ve never seen anything like it. We’ve been constantly monitoring you but nothing seems to have gone wrong. Your hand,” he gave Jim a pointed look, “healed flawlessly. There’s a lot of new research about Bonding and healing powers, but most of us think that what happened to you is almost a breakthrough.”

               Jim blinked.

               “I mean,” the man continued, “Infection disappeared _completely_. It’s unbelievable! Your skin and Mark reformed with no scarring. Yours too,” he looked at Sherlock, making Jim cock an eyebrow at the detective. Had Sherlock tried to cut his out, too?

               “So, yes,” the man hopped slightly, reminding Jim very vaguely of Molly Hooper, “I entrust the two of you will have fantastic lives together.”

               Oh, yes. He was definitely ignorant.

               “But, I’m here to inform, as well as warn you about a few things. I’ll try to answer any questions I can at the end,” the nurse continued, “Now, first things first. Are you two able to read each other’s thoughts, or get vague senses of each other’s emotions, or anything similar?”

               Jim and Sherlock nodded solemnly.

               “Right then,” he made a checkmark on his clipboard and extracted two purple pamphlets from the stack he was holding, extending them towards Jim. The criminal reluctantly took one and handed the other to Sherlock, without looking at him. Against his better instincts, he glanced at the title.

               **Strong Bonds and You**

 _Nope_ , Jim thought decidedly, turning the pamphlet over and moving a dark gaze back to the nurse.

               “So, as you can see by the title,” he motioned towards the pamphlets, “You two have a Bond very high in strength. Which means, you get some of the best perks of having a Soulmate, but also some setbacks.”

               Jim was already starting to map out possible escape routes, aware of Sherlock mentally watching him.   

               “You two will likely feel a lot of the same feelings, regardless of distance. That’s not to say you won’t be able to have your own emotions, but if one of you is angry, it’s almost certain the other will feel a little irritable. This might improve as time goes on and you learn how to control the Bond to your advantage. Unfortunately, if one of you is sick, or in pain, the other will feel it, too. And,” his voice was suddenly solemn, “if one of you was to pass away, it is almost certain the other would, as well.”

               The criminal could practically feel worry radiating off of John. Maybe that was Sherlock’s ‘emotions’ starting to get to him.

               “But,” the nurse turned cheery again, “You two will also very likely get to share dreams with the other, sometimes _consciously_. It’s something only found in the strongest of Bonds, but I think you two have what it takes!”

               “Why is it illegal to break Bonds?” Sherlock challenged, and Mycroft covered his face with a hand.

               “Um,” the nurse looked very uncomfortable, “Because in 90 percent of cases it is lethal. They’re currently working on research to fix it but so far almost every procedure results in brain damage or-”

               “I knew someone who was saved by it,” Sherlock interrupted, “Better to have at least a little hope than none.”

               “Sherlock-” Mycroft started.

               “No, he’s right!” John frowned, defending his friend, “What if someone is Bonded to a psychopath? Are we just supposed to let their lives be ruined?”

               “No, but-”

               “Bonds with psychopaths are infrequent enough that the government hasn’t placed research on breaking them as a top priority,” Mycroft pronounced, quieting the room, “Most are very happy with their Soulmates. There are many other matters in the medical field that are more…pressing.”  

               “More pressing-?” John was incredulous, “But he’s your brother!”

               “He is one person who was stupid enough to shake hands with a man just as mad as he is,” Mycroft said coldly, making the doctor’s mouth fall open, “I have little sympathy available for people who get themselves stuck in these types of situations, then come crying to the government for help.”

               “He could have just as easily shook hands with Jim _before_ he knew he was Moriarty! Would you care then? If it wasn’t his fault? He’s a victim!”

               “John-” Sherlock started quietly, finishing his thought within the confines of his mind, _I’m not a victim._

               Jim noted the detective’s words before his thoughts were dragged off on a quite unpleasant tangent. _God_ , did they all have to be so loud when they argued?

               “Wait, Moriarty?” the nurse’s eyes widened as he finally saw the criminal for what he was, “Were you the one with the jewels-”

               “ _Yes_ ,” Mycroft rolled his eyes in an exaggerated motion, “Thank you for catching up.”

               “Ah,” the nurse shook his head, as if to clear it, “Listen. You lot can argue when I’m gone, alright? Right now, I just need to check a few things with the new Soulmates. If you two could either be quiet or leave, that would be fantastic.”

               Mycroft and John quieted down, resorting to silent glares. Jim was still picking up on Sherlock’s adrenaline from the argument.

               “Now, I need you to both quickly show me your Marks.”

               The consultants complied, and the nurse gave each of their palms a quick check up, lingering on Jim’s and then dropping it quite abruptly, looking a little bit unsettled afterwards. Maybe he forgot he was holding the hand of a criminal overlord.

               “Alright, two right palms,” the nurse mumbled to himself, making a note on his clipboard, “Now tell me, have either of you been experiencing any pain since you woke up? Especially headaches or burning near the Marked area?”

               Jim and Sherlock shook their heads.

               “Good,” the nurse nodded, making another mark, “Your Bond is definitely fully formed. Now, one last thing, and then I’ll be out of your hair. Whether you two have a platonic Bond or not, the first few weeks are likely to be a little bit hectic, thanks to hormones and a load of things explained in the pamphlet.”

               _Uh oh_ , the whole room seemed to think in unison, and this didn’t seem to escape the nurse’s notice.

               “What I mean is,” he explained, “Emotions will be a little bit crazy for you two. For platonic Soulmates, this often means they get very clingy with their Mate. For romantic and sexual pairs, you can imagine what happens. Just make sure to be safe with whatever you do and-”

               The nurse seemed to become aware, at this moment, that four very dangerous men were looking at him as though wondering how best to lodge a knife in his forehead.

               “Ahem,” he cleared his throat, “That’s it then. No use keeping you at the hospital when you’re,” a nervous glance at Moriarty, “um…good to go home. Just make sure you check out and-”

               Mycroft sighed loudly, and the nurse finally took the hint to leave. The door swung shut behind him with an air of finality, casting a blanket of silence over the room. Jim was starting to feel suffocated; out of his element with zero control, surrounded by people he hated. It was exhausting being here.

               But then again, the idea of having to go and deal with getting rid of Sebastian…no, _Moran_ , was also equally distasteful. The only thing that really sounded good was being back on the rooftop with Sherlock; a gun in his pocket. It would all end so simply, so easily…

               _His lips would be chapped against yours, slightly chilled from the wind…_

               The criminal discarded this intrusive thought, taking care not to glance in Sherlock’s direction, in case he had heard. Must be the damn hormones.

               “Well,” the detective broke the silence as he stood up, “While I would _love_ to stay and chat with you lot all day, John and I _really_ should be on our way-”

               “Actually,” Mycroft interrupted, “You’re not going anywhere, brother mine.”

               _Ooh, seems the Ice Man has a capacity for endearing terms, after all,_ Jim thought snidely.

               Sherlock shot a glare over his shoulder towards the criminal before turning back to his brother with an equally savage glint in his eye, “And why is that?”

               The eldest Holmes laughed humorlessly, “Ha! You’re Bonded to a criminal now, Sherlock. Possibly the most wanted criminal in not only London, but the world. Do you really think the British government is going to pass up an opportunity like this?”

               “Wait,” John’s eyes widened in fury, “You’re taking him _hostage_?”

               “It’s for the greater good, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft drawled, “You _do_ care about the well being of all the little people, don’t you?”

               “He’s your brother!”

               “Yes, very good deduction. That’s the second time you’ve made that one today.”

               “Leave him out of it,” Sherlock interjected, “I’m not going quietly. I won’t let you imprison me for the rest of my life. I have work to do.”

               “If you do this, I’ll let the world know about it!” John stood beside his friend, back ramrod straight, “The public will know that you imprisoned an innocent citizen-”

               “No,” a cruel smile twisted Mycroft’s features, “They will know that the fraud detective and murder suspect Sherlock Holmes is imprisoned with an actor no one has heard of who attempted to steal the crown jewels, presented no defense at his trial, and somehow walked free. Honestly,” the elder Holmes turned to Jim, eyes glittering, “You’ve made this all very easy, Mr. Moriarty. You have my utmost gratitude for that.”

               The criminal was finding it hard to look intimidating in pajama like hospital clothes, but he nonetheless responded with a smooth, “The pleasure was mine,” through the teeth.

               “You’re sick,” John hissed. Jim noticed that his hands didn’t hold their usual tremor. He was stressed. “Some brother you are.”

               “We can keep an eye on him where we’re going,” Mycroft’s tone remained monotonous as ever as two large men in suits threw open the door behind him, one marching briskly towards each consultant.

               Jim tensed, immediately running over his options. Running didn’t seem good right now. He’d had bargains with Mycroft Holmes before, so he’d likely be able to find his way out rather quickly. Still, this was an inconvenience, both to his empire and plans for Sherlock. Not exactly a win.

               The criminal was roughly grabbed by one of Mycroft’s thugs, and, irritated, he swiftly tore his arm from the man’s grip, glaring at Sherlock’s brother.

               “I don’t need an escort,” he said coolly, “I’ll comply.”

               “The day a wanted criminal behaves better than my own brother,” Mycroft gave the detective a patronizing look, “is a sad day for the Holmes family. Sherlock, do you remember what we used to say about misbehaving?”

               Jim could feel the detective trying very hard to repress a memory that seemed to be labeled mostly with embarrassment and irritation. When the criminal tried to access it, however, all that showed were blurs of colors and muddled words. Whatever it was, Sherlock clearly didn’t want him to see it. Hm. Curious.

               _Something ordinary, probably_.

               The detective initially struggled against Mycroft’s employee’s grip, but now that Jim didn’t need his own, Sherlock had to fight not just one, but two men. Despite his nimble nature, days without food and an undetermined amount of time spent essentially in coma was not doing anything to help the detective win. Eventually, Mycroft nodded for Sherlock to be taken from the room, and the younger brother was dragged out, nothing but pure hatred for the Ice Man radiating through the Bond. It was starting to even make Jim a little irritated.

               God, this damn Mark was disgusting.

               John glared at the two of them, and both the criminal and Mycroft watched him passively.

               “I won’t let you do this,” the doctor shook his head, smiling sadly, “Either of you.”

               “I didn’t ask for this, Johnny,” Jim finally decided to engage Sherlock’s pet, “However,” he turned to Mycroft, “Having some decent clothing to wear would be _divine_.”

               “All your needs will be met once we reach our destination,” Mycroft smiled sweetly, and the criminal huffed in response.

               “What am I supposed to tell Lestrade? Molly? Mrs. Hudson? The _press_?” John’s voice was bordering on hysteria, and Jim rolled his eyes. How Sherlock tolerated _that_ all day was beyond him.

               “The same thing I’m telling them,” Mycroft answered, “Nothing.”

               And with that, the Ice Man and the criminal left John alone, the door swinging shut behind them, and Jim feeling a foreign emotion that he was unable to place for a moment. Anxiety? Boredom? Exhaustion.

               _Lonely?_

No. That wasn’t it. He was tired. This was hormones. Hormones. That was all. It probably explained that in their lovely _pamphlets._

               Hormones.

               The criminal could have _sworn_ he heard Sherlock scoff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, hope you guys are liking this. Leave me your thoughts/hopes/dreams/ambitions? Doing so lets you hit Mycroft in the face with a pie. Actually, he would probably like that ^_^


	12. Scintillation

               Sherlock watched out of tinted windows as Moriarty and Mycroft strolled out of the hospital doors, Jim still, like the detective, in his hospital clothes. Evidently they were in enough of a rush that Mycroft had decided not to allow Jim time to get changed. He could feel irritation radiating off of the criminal in waves, which didn’t do anything to brighten his own mood.

               The detective slumped against leather upholstery. He hated feeling out of control. On one hand, Moriarty was doing everything in his power to ensure Sherlock committed suicide with him. On the other, there was Mycroft now taking him hostage, which was fantastic in foiling Jim’s plans, but also prevented the detective from _living his life._ Even his mind was no longer within his own complete control; the place that had once been a sanctuary, a safehaven, and a database. Now even that was no longer his.

               _If you’d jumped, we wouldn’t have this little problem, would we?_ Jim’s voice slithered into his skull.

               _Hypothetical scenarios do nothing to solve the current one. The thug by the door has a present for you, by the way,_ Sherlock thought snidely, succumbing completely to the poor temper their Bond was currently infected with.

               The detective watched dark eyes flicker to where he’d directed them, and soon after, a frown crossed Moriarty’s expression. Doubtless, the criminal had caught sight of the tense posture of Mycroft’s pet, who stood guard just outside the car door opposite Sherlock. A zip tie was clenched in one of his fists, behind his back.

               Sherlock wasn’t surprised to see, once they reached the car, that Jim barely protested when he was grabbed roughly by the suited man, his hands forced together in front of him and bound tightly. Rather, he turned to Mycroft, speaking so softly that the detective could barely hear him through the walls of the vehicle.

               “Tad paranoid, are we?”

               “No,” Mycroft drawled, and Sherlock could practically _hear_ his smug, tight lipped smile, “Just aware.”

               The car door was opened, and Jim shoved onto the seat beside the detective. Sherlock tried to ignore the slight jolt it sent through the Bond, inviting a pleasant tingling sensation into his Mark. Did Jim feel that, too? Probably not. According to Google, psychopathic Bonds were one sided.

               _Google said it, so it must be true,_ Moriarty thought quietly.

               _Shut up_ , Sherlock snapped, leaning forward to see past the madman. John was marching towards them as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. The detective felt a pang of regret. Their last case together had been a nightmare for both of them. He wished it could have been something enjoyable. Running around London at midnight instead of court cases and…fear.

               Moriarty turned to look out his window to see what Sherlock was looking at, and grew even more irritated upon seeing the doctor. The detective tried to ignore this, heart aching.

               _I’ll be back,_ Sherlock thought, _I’m sorry_. It was only after the fact that he realized John couldn’t hear him.

               _No, you won’t be,_ anger flared on Jim’s end of the Bond, _You’ll be dead before your little pet can so much as pick up a beer to drink the sadness away. Though I must say, it’s cute how well you have him trained._

 _Shut. Up,_ the detective gritted his teeth, letting his restraints dig into his wrists.

               _Is that all you can say?_ Moriarty snapped, _My God, you’ve gotten dumb. Don’t you ever get bored, talking like one of the ordinaries?_

 _You’re insane,_ Sherlock thought miserably, _Get out of my head._

 _Oh, sorry!_ The criminal thought sarcastically, _I’ll just leave then, shall I?_

_Yes. Please do._

_I would rather be mad than delusional. I’ve given you a way to stop this, and you continue to reject it._

_There has to be another way._

_Honey, you and I both know there isn’t._

For some horrible, _morbid_ reason, a few ideas jumped to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind.

               _Oooh, true. I like the way you think. Ponder this often? How to go?_

The detective forced that train of thought to dissipate, returning his thoughts to John. And Mrs. Hudson. And even Molly. Anything happy that would make Jim uncomfortable. To a degree, it worked. While the criminal tried to brush it off, Sherlock was satisfied to see that he was cringing away from the images slightly. Until, that is, Jim presented some new ones.

               John getting shot. Molly pondering new uses for a razor blade. Mrs. Hudson counting out drug money.

               _You sicken me._

_Kill yourself, then. I’ll be out of your hair. It’s the only way._

Sherlock really couldn’t argue with that logic. Though for whatever reason, he felt like it would be giving up.

               _What about breaking it? The Bond? You have the connections. We could finish the game without it._

Jim weighed it for a moment.

               _Holmes, it’s not possible._

_Of course it is._

_Did you not read your pamphlet?_ The criminal thought caustically, _Breaking a Bond this strong would kill us both. You would die during the surgery. At the hands of an illegally practicing doctor._

_Better than dying on your terms._

_I’m hurt. You’d rather die at the hands of an ordina-_

_Yes. Anyone but you._

Moriarty’s anger escalated, _Do you know how much I’ve planned for you, Holmes? All for you?_

_Am I supposed to be grateful? You ruined me. You broke your favorite toy, Jim._

_Shut the Hell up._

Mycroft slid into the seat in front of Sherlock. John wasn’t even close to them when he ordered his driver to step on it.

               _John, I’ll be back,_ the detective thought, wishing more than anything that he could have had a Bond with the doctor instead of the criminal, _I’ll be back._

 _In a coffin,_ Moriarty added silently.

(o0o0o0o0o0)

               The rest of the car ride passed in tense silence, Jim, Sherlock, and Mycroft and the driver all falling into their own thoughts. The detective and the criminal remained free of blindfolds, as Mycroft was able to recognize that, even with them on, either consultant would easily be able to count the number of turns and the approximate time between each, revealing their location anyway. They drove for a number of hours, and eventually the urban landscape gave way to a more rural one; all curves of green rather than blocky concrete. Sherlock watched tree after tree pass them in surly silence, dimly aware of Jim’s scheming. The detective wished he was asleep in 221B again. He’d rather have the blinding pain of the unformed Bond than this. Though he supposed, since he couldn’t really change it, he might as well make use of it...

               The detective turned his focus, ever so slightly, to Moriarty’s thoughts.

               _-Jo’s betrayal. This is wasting time and every moment spent here is giving her more time to run. If she gets away, others will also think I’m vulnerable. Which I am. What about Sebastia—no—Moran! He knows too much, too. Both of them have to go. If Sherlock complies, I won’t have to deal with this. It can all be over. Though it’ll be messy. Too messy. He’s not having this. I’m certainly not going to do it for him._

Not to Sherlock’s surprise, a brief mental image of the criminal holding a knife to his throat flashed through Moriarty’s mind.

               What _was_ surprising was the fact that Jim seemed to flinch away from it slightly. And, more disturbingly, how he seemed to linger on the hypothetical feel of Sherlock’s skin for a few extra moments.

               Except…it wasn’t hypothetical anymore, was it? They’d touched on the rooftop and in the hospital. That was why they were in this mess, in the first place.

               _Stop,_ Jim thought to himself, _Damn hormones. You are not gay._

Sherlock’s stomach twisted at the familiar words. He couldn’t say they weren’t reassuring, though. Moriarty had no feelings for other humans. Any thoughts that pointed towards otherwise were simply a result of hormones. Just hormones from the Bond.

               “And just how long do you plan on keeping us here?” the detective challenged Mycroft, breaking the silence, “What possible purpose does hiding us serve?”

               “As long as it takes,” came the disinterested reply, “to learn just how big of a danger this new development is, and how it can be contained.”

               “Danger?” Sherlock scoffed, “Moriarty has been around years.”

               “And now,” Mycroft drawled, “there’s going to be two of them.”

               “I can control myself,” he growled.

               “Apparently not, according recent discoveries by press.”

               “I’m innocent,” Sherlock pushed.

               “So am I, apparently,” Jim muttered, eliciting a humorless laugh from Mycroft and a glare from the detective.

               “What will mother think?” Sherlock leaned forward slightly, “Taking me hostage with a maniac. Crime in London will-”

               “Be at an all time low, now that its leader is contained, and you’re no longer available to provoke him,” Mycroft, infuriatingly, interrupted him.

               “Yes,” Sherlock sneered, “Brilliant. I’m sure the police will do just fine on their own, now that you’ve got one person jailed.”

               “I hate to break this to you, Sherlock,” Mycroft drawled, “But the London police force survived without you once, and it can do it again. Life goes on. Even for John.”

               The detective snorted, “Please.”

               “He’s, in the words of our favorite consulting criminal, _ordinary_ , Sherlock. Life always goes on for them.”

               _Until they meet someone like us, right?_

               _Indeed,_ Jim answered mockingly. The detective ignored him.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Finally, after another hour of silence, the group arrived at a medium sized cottage, nestled in the trees. Sherlock would have laughed aloud, had he not already counted twelve cameras.

               “Now, you two,” Mycroft started his lecture as soon as the consultants, still bound at their wrists, were dragged out of the backseat, “Don’t make this harder on yourselves than it needs to be. Be good, hm?”

               _Stop talking PLEASE,_ Jim’s thoughts overlapped with Mycroft’s speech, making it harder to listen.

               Sherlock smiled coldly at his brother, “Back to London, then. Can’t even be bothered to keep up with your own experiments?”

               Mycroft glared at him, “Time is money, brother mine. Hopefully we’ll be seeing you for Christmas. There are guards at every door. You will be under constant surveillance and every word you utter will be taken note of. Every method of escape you’ve considered has likely already been thought of and prevented. But you already knew that. We’re all _intelligent_ beings, here, so as long as no one decides to try anything,” he looked pointedly at Sherlock, “This should be relatively simple.” All your needs will be provided for. You’ll have clothes, food, medicine if you need it-”

               Sherlock thought painfully of cigarettes, and Mycroft, probably seeing him twitch, smirked.

               “-and as many nicotine patches as you desire.”

               The detective resisted an urge to roll his eyes. To do so seemed too trivial in comparison to the actual amount of anger he was feeling. Although, to his dismay, he could feel that emotion quickly draining. There was a sort of numbness chilling the Bond from Moriarty’s end, and when Sherlock glanced over at the criminal, he saw that Jim’s eyes had already started to go blank.

               _“He just sat there, staring into the darkness.”_

Hm. Defense mechanism, obviously. If they were under constant surveillance, every move Moriarty made could be analyzed to learn about himself or his empire. No one could keep up a façade 24/7. Sherlock supposed it wasn’t a terrible strategy, albeit an irritating one. To not be able to think for oneself for so long seemed excruciating.

               The detective didn’t speak to his brother again before he and Jim were grabbed by men and hauled towards the cottage. Their hands were freed with two snips of scissors and the doors slammed behind them with an air of finality, echoing against dark hardwood floors and finally leaving both consultants alone in the silence.

               Sherlock turned to Moriarty to find dark eyes already watching him. They stared at one another for a moment, and it was evident to the detective that Jim was trying to push something out of his mind. Something involving the rooftop. He couldn’t imagine why.

               _Recklessness is not in our best interest,_ the criminal thought as he started to stroll away, studying his surroundings, _Either of us,_ he added reluctantly.

               Sherlock copied the Irishman, walking in the opposite direction. While Jim examined the kitchen and sitting room, the detective strolled towards where the bedrooms should be, in a hallway that went off the main room.

               _They’ll be suspicious if we’re not talking at all,_ he pointed out.

               _Your brother knows next to nothing about our relationship. He won’t see anything strange whether we act if we hate each other or not, as long as it’s consistent._

 _There is no ‘our’,_ Sherlock felt like provoking the criminal.

               _Not anymore. Not since you became ordinary,_ Jim’s parry was equally vicious, _See, isn’t this fun? I can see how much it hurts you to admit that, now._

 _It goes both ways!_ The detective jumped to the bait, _You’re mad. Completely mad. I got into this game thinking we were equals, but I was sold short. You stalked me, strapped my colleague to a bomb, and killed to get my attention. You’re a common lunatic. I care nothing for our game anymore._

 _Would a common lunatic go to all this trouble to get you a golden ticket out of this world?_ Moriarty’s thoughts were biting.

               _Only a lunatic would think death is something to be grateful for._

_Ah, but then it’s not just me._

Sherlock mentally cursed, but Jim’s amusement did nothing to warm the atmosphere. He’d been hoping the criminal wouldn’t bring this up.

               _Don’t assume what I want._

_It’s not assumption. It’s deduction. A teensy part of you wanted to die. ‘I am you’, remember?_

_I was lying. I’m not you._

Of all the way’s Jim could have possibly reacted to that statement, Sherlock never, in a _thousand_ lifetimes, would have expected him to be hurt by it. But nonetheless, that seemed to be the emotion that he accidentally let past his mental block, and the detective deduced from the anger that followed it that the criminal knew he’d seen.

               _We’re finishing the game. I know you want it._

 _‘All the kings horses couldn’t make me do a thing I didn’t want to’_ Sherlock quoted cheekily.

               _Ah, but I can. I almost made you jump off a building, remember?_

_You had resources then. Now I know your empire is crumbling. I know you can’t control your top employees and I know Mycroft has stripped you off all possible contact with the outside world. You’re trapped. In your own little web._

_Been eavesdropping? And yes, for now he has. But you don’t exactly have anything, either. All your little pets are at home. Will John even be able to feed himself while you’re gone?_

_Leave him out of it._

_Of course._

Sherlock’s brow furrowed.

               _Mmm, would a lunatic agree to your wishes?_

_Possibly. If you were obsessed enough._

_Don’t pretend like you didn’t check for new texts every five minutes. You wanted me to call._

_And you wanted me to die for you._

_No, I wanted you to die WITH me._

The detective turned his attention to the doors around him. Two bedrooms. Good. He didn’t want to have to deal with ‘Mr. Sex’ harassing ‘The Virgin’ this whole time. Though he doubtless would do it anyway.

               Speak of the devil, Moriarty brushed past Sherlock to enter the bedroom on the left and probably look for a change of clothes. The brief contact sent electricity through the detective’s veins, increasing his heartrate and making his mind go blank for a moment, save for the noise the fabric of Jim’s hospital clothes had made as they brushed against his own.

               Sherlock tried, and struggled, to delete the thought. If Jim had heard, he hadn’t responded to it. Of course. ‘Not gay’.

               Silently, the detective made his way to the other bedroom and flopped down onto the bed, assuming his favorite thinking pose as Moriarty rustled coathangers in his own room.

               _Coat hangers. Clothes. Jim’s clothes and how they would feel under your hands. Cold skin on yours, shaking hands for the first time. Irish accent._

Sherlock shooed those thoughts away, alarmed. No matter if either of them were gay or not, he _definitely_ didn’t feel anything towards Jim Moriarty. Not as an adversary, not as a Soulmate, and not as a romantic partner. He was nothing. Nothing at all. The detective silently prayed that the criminal hadn’t heard any of the previous thoughts.

               _Dark eyes, stubble. Clever beyond belief. A mastermind with a smirk—STOP! Delete. Delete. Delete._

The detective, feeling entirely too warm for comfort now, tried to replace his previous thoughts on Moriarty with different images. John strapped to Semtex. Crestfallen Lestrade. Dead Irene.

               There. That seemed to do it. Chemicals were no match for a good mind.

               Sherlock tried his best to ignore the tangent Jim’s own thoughts were drifting off on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again….I feel the chemicals kickin in….Let me know what you think! About Jim’s ‘not gay’ mantra, about Mycroft being a dick, about the hormonal side effects of the Bond…anything, really! See ya for now!


	13. Comet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a preliminary warning for internalized homophobia and a slur. In fact, that theme is going to be a major part of characterization for not one but TWO characters, so while it will be eventually resolved, if it’s a big trigger for you, this may not be your story. I won’t be posting another warning like this.

The days following their arrival into captivity passed in painful tedium for Sherlock and Jim. Both consultants spent the vast majority of their time within their own minds, plotting and considering and scrapping different methods of escape. Of course, their thoughts were no longer private, which made such a practice nearly useless, as long as they weren’t helping one another. Despite the obvious similarities in their patterns of thought, neither man would even remotely entertain the possibility of working together to escape. Partially, this resulted from stubbornness—Jim knew himself well enough to admit he didn’t work well with anyone who couldn’t give him complete control, but there were other reasons, ones that set the criminal’s teeth on edge, as to why he was distancing himself from Sherlock.

               Jim wasn’t deaf. He’d heard what the nurse had said about hormones in the first few weeks of a romantic Bond. He’d initially hoped for a platonic Bond, but after the intrusive thoughts had started, he’d known to discard that small hope. The criminal, moreover, had expected to feel a little bit off.

               He hadn’t anticipated for it to feel this real.

               Sexuality had always been an irrelevant concept to Jim. He’d always _felt things,_ but ignored them for the most part. Sex was boring. People did it for power, or for pleasure. Unless there was something to be gained from it, he avoided it. And, as a rule, he’d _always_ avoided men.

               But Sherlock was…perplexing.

               As the days went on, Jim spent more and more time pushing away thoughts about the detective. Not only physical things, like how his hair might smell or how his skin might feel, but _emotional_ things as well. He found himself wanting to _ask_ Sherlock things. Legitimately _ask_ him. About how he rationalized deductions or how he tolerated Watson. The criminal felt like he was being dragged to his death. Anytime he got too close to Holmes, it felt like every nerve in his body was _awake._ His heartrate picked up, and suddenly he had energy, energy to deal with ordinaries and plot crimes and fix the mess Jo had created, and this was disastrous because…because…

               Jim pushed a memory away. All that mattered was that feeling something towards Sherlock was vulnerability. It gave him room to wonder if he’d liked other men before, and that was _dangerous._ Why it was a problem, the criminal wasn’t fond of recalling.

               As frustrating as it was for his body to betray him, at least Jim had a simple excuse for that part of his situation. He could tell himself it was the hormones and move on. But the criminal was starting to develop far more serious, overarching worries. The most troubling of these was whether or not he _actually_ _wanted Sherlock dead._

               Suddenly, Jim found himself slightly troubled of the idea of Sherlock’s mind no longer being active. Of his eyes no longer roving over a corpse to determine cause of death, or over a living person to deduce what they’d eaten for lunch. The criminal wasn’t completely convinced he _wanted_ the detective dead, anymore. And as long as Sherlock wasn’t dead, Jim couldn’t be dead, either. He wasn’t sure he was comfortable with the idea of Holmes living while he was six feet underground—wouldn’t that be missing out? Being dead seemed dreadfully _boring_ compared to living in a world with Sherlock. Jim was _questioning_ his motivation to die, and it was awful. Because he knew, deep down, that he could never truly be happy alive. If there was anything he’d learned from this godforsaken planet, it was that no one could _really_ enjoy themselves on it. What was the point in staying alive? The longer Sherlock deluded Jim, the longer he had to suffer. _That_ was the problem at the heart of it.

               So, he distanced himself. Jim pushed all thoughts of Holmes from his mind, save for his one, overarching goal. The detective would die with him. Plain, simple, and clean. That was all there would be to it. But, for now, Jim had to figure out an escape from the Ice Man’s prison.

               And so, Monday turned to Tuesday, which eventually was Thursday, and soon enough it was Monday again. The two consultants only left their respective rooms when it was a complete necessity, to shower or use the toilet or get water. As the days went by, it got easier and easier for Jim to distance himself from the present. Sherlock carefully guarded his thoughts from the criminal, who extended the same courtesy to the detective. Not a word was spoken aloud all week.

Eventually, however, something changed. It was a pleasantly overcast Tuesday morning, and Jim had awoken looking forward to a peaceful day of thinking. He hadn’t eaten for two days, and the criminal couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard Sherlock get up to go to the cottage’s small kitchen. Poor Mycroft. All that money spent on food, gone to waste.

And, evidently, the Ice Man wasn’t tired of wasting only food. Time was money, in Mycroft’s words. It was for this reason that both Jim and Sherlock were violently jerked out of their respective mind palaces, at the slam of the front door, on that gloomy Tuesday.

The criminal paused after the interruption, debating whether it was worth seeking the culprit out. If it was one of Mycroft’s thugs, there was no reason to worry. They’d seek him out and give him whatever lecture was needed on cooperation. What worried Jim was the premise of it being someone else. Possibly Jo or Sebastian or another traitor come to get rid of him.

Before Holmes, he’d never had to worry about this problem.

Inching off his bed, Jim grabbed a knife he’d swiped from the kitchen a few days previous—he was surprised Mycroft had even allowed them—and silently opened his door to take a look in the hallway.

Sherlock had, apparently, had the same idea. The detective was already padding down the hallway in pyjama pants and a t-shirt, a glint of silver far more lethal than the Mark that decorated his right palm in the very same hand.

Someone—male, by the tone of voice, cleared their throat.

“…Hello?”

American accent. Still a broad category to fit people into, but Jim would know that doubtful tone anywhere.

The criminal, without thinking, grabbed the detective’s arm to stop him advancing down the hallway further. Had Sherlock not been wearing sleeves, Jim didn’t want to think about what might have happened, because as soon as he reached across the hallway, Marked palm making contact with the detective’s upper arm, the breath was crushed from Jim’s lungs. Every thought he’d worked so hard to ignore for the past week came rushing back to the criminal in a wave of need. Time seemed to stop, and in that moment, all that mattered was getting closer to Sherlock. He needed to taste his lips, to feel his skin and the heat of their bodies against one another. Jim’s head felt fuzzy and his stomach light as Sherlock jumped slightly at the contact, turning to face him quick enough to give himself whiplash. The detective’s pupils were dilated.

 _It’s the dim lighting,_ Jim tried to convince himself, _Dim lighting. Stop it. Stop it now. Boring. This is boring. So boring._

_You could kiss Jim right now. Stomach light. Head fuzzy. Interesting experiment. Five foot seven. Good arms and mouth. Dark eyes. Pupils dilated….dark lighting? Oh, right…_

Sherlock’s end of the Bond grew very quiet.

Jim blinked at his adversary, _...Was that you?_

 _…Hormones._ The detective was clearly unnerved.

Heart thrumming and feeling a bit too warm, the criminal tried to remember why he was there. Ah, right. Moran.

 _He’s one of mine,_ Jim jerked his head towards the room the sniper was in.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but said nothing, so the criminal continued down the hallway, leaving the detective behind.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian took a few more steps into the sitting room, holding his gun steady. He had expected for Mycroft Holmes to follow up on his promise to use him for other projects. That didn’t make the sniper any more eager to attempt to threaten his boss into being more cooperative towards the  British government’s prying.

               He was dead. He was so, so dead. Even holding a firearm, he felt exposed. One didn’t simply shoot Jim Moriarty.

               The sniper barely stifled a sudden bout of nervous laughter before a dangerously quiet Irish drawl nearly stopped his heart.

               “Moran. What brings you here?”

               Sebastian licked his lips, sending two silent prayers up to the heavens. One, to forgive him for always skipping church, and another to do him one _tiny_ favor and let him survive this. Slowly, hands steady on his weapon, he turned around to face his fears.

               Moriarty was dressed, to his great surprise, in a simple t-shirt and sweatpants. His hair was completely natural, and it stuck up in tufts in certain places, giving the impression that he’d just woken up. In fact, if Sebastian was honest with himself, the criminal really didn’t look much different than he had the last time he’d seen him. Of course, this time there was less blood, but that was always subject to change. The Irishman twirled a knife between his fingers, sending refractions of dim light across his face every now and again.

               Dark eyes bored into Sebastian’s skull, “Have I surprised you, Moran?”

               Okay, apparently Moriarty could now read minds. Sebastian had taken great care to control his facial expression—sniping wasn’t the only thing he’d learned from army training. Was Moriarty really that smart? Although…the sniper supposed since his encounter with Mycroft he’d been a little more jumpy than usual. What could he say? Even in sweatpants, Jim Moriarty was terrifying.

               Sebastian steadily lifted the gun slightly, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt, “I could ask you the same thing.”

               “Look at you,” Moriarty sing songed, taking a casual step towards the sniper, “So brave. Do you feel brave, Moran?”

               “…I’m the one holding a gun,” Sebastian said slowly, “I’m the one who spared you.”

               Moriarty’s expression darkened so quickly that the sniper could have sworn the rest of the lighting dimmed with it.

               “Moran, do you know how to skin a fish?”

               _Oh God._

Without thinking, Sebastian took a step away from the criminal, who was now a bit too close for his comfort.

               “…Yes, as a matter of fact.”

               “Hm. Shame,” Moriarty drawled, continuing towards the sniper, “Otherwise, what I’d planned for you would have been quite educational. Suppose I’ll have to change that.”

               Heart hammering, Sebastian noted that a wall was only a few feet behind him.

               _You have a gun. You’re in control._

_If I kill him, I’m out of a job. Holmes will kill me._

_Say something smart, for once in your life!_

“Are you firing me, Boss?”

               “Firing you?” Moriarty raised his eyebrows in surprise, “Nah…setting you on fire isn’t completely out of the question, though…so many fun things to try…”

               “Don’t you want to know why I’m here?” Sebastian blurted out, and there was a long, dangerous pause.

               “Do I look,” twin voids of black stared unblinkingly at the sniper, “Stupid, Moran?”

               Knowing no answer would be correct, Sebastian kept his mouth shut.

               “You’re here because I’m not cooperating. Because it’s been a week and I haven’t given them anything. You’re here to _convince me._ Give me an incentive. Quite poor planning on The Iceman’s part, given that you were the one who led them to me.”

               Sebastian’s breath caught in his throat, “How’d you know…”

               “ _Do I look stupid?_ ” Moriarty’s temper flared.

               “No, no, you’re right, Boss,” the sniper shook his head, “You don’t look stupid. Yes, I told them. And yes, I’m here to give you an incentive to cooperate.”

               The criminal grinned eerily, eyes sparkling with malice, “Ah. And you just thought I’d forgive and forget, did you? Have you not heard the stories? The…” he looked down a nearby hallway, watching something Sebastian couldn’t see, “…fairytales?”

               “Uh,” the sniper was starting to reconsider the fact that he wanted to preserve his job under this man, but it was too late to back out, now, “Boss, if you’ll just consider the premise Mycroft Holmes presented to me…”

               “Forget it,” Moriarty waved him away, starting to leave the room, “I’ll look it over later when I need a laugh. Though I suppose I could wait until I get out of here and kill you. _That_ will be rich. How do you feel about needles?”

               Sebastian swallowed, putting a small packet of paper on a nearby coffee table, “They’re awful, Boss.”

               An unearthly chuckle was all that answered him.

(o0o0o0o0)

               After stalking back to his bedroom past Sherlock’s now closed door (the Bond was oddly quiet, so Jim assumed he was sleeping), the criminal took a few minutes to consider his options and game plan. Every time he tried to get some thinking done, however, memories of touching the detective kept creeping to the forefront of his mind.

               It had been _electric._ Oh, God, what was Jim supposed to do? He couldn’t ignore it. Not really. This had been such a fleeting thing—barely a whisper of contact. It was impossible to _imagine_ what something real would be like. To have Sherlock’s lips on his…

               _Stop it. Stop it now. You’re not gay. This is the hormones. You don’t really feel this way. He hates you. As he should. It’s better that way. Then you can die together. After you escape this place. Need to figure out what to do about Moran. Which will be impossible if you don’t stop thinking about Sherlock. Don’t show weakness. He can hear—_

 _What if he didn’t care about weakness? What if I walked to his room right now? He certainly didn’t react_ negatively _to our touches._

_I’m not gay. This is ridiculous. He didn’t react positively, either._

_But I don’t know that for certain. Is it possible our emotions are getting mixed together with this Bond?_

_Stop thinking about it!_

               The criminal realized he’d been digging his nails into his palms, leaving a neat row of crescent indents on each. Slowly, he released the tension from his hands, sighing as he did so. Jim brought his right, Marked hand closer to eye level and examined it. How could a glorified tattoo cause him so much strife?

               _Because it lets you hear Sherlock think_.

               Oh, God. It did, though. And that _was_ the reason. Jim hated having a Soulmate, but he supposed being Bonded with Sherlock wasn’t the _worst_ thing that could have happened. He hated a good deal more things than being able to hear the detective’s thoughts. Of course, now they both had hormones going haywire to force them into a gay relationship, so…

               But a Bond cheapened things, didn’t it? They were ordinary now. What they’d had before had been poetic; untouchable by the general population. Sherlock and Jim could have been both dead by now; finishing their dance in a grand, bloody finale. Now it just wasn’t the same. Of course, they still would have to do it. Despite his doubts, the criminal refused to let whatever thoughts were being forced into his mind to get in the way of what he really wanted. He’d finish the game with Sherlock as soon as he was out of here. First, he’d have to get someone to dispose of Sebastian and Jo. Unfortunately, there was probably going to have to be a big production involved. Probably a bomb. He couldn’t really risk hiring a private assassin for a little while until this was cleaned up. Though a bombing was _so_ messy…

               Huffing slightly in frustration, Jim set off for the living room to see what offer Moran had dropped by. Maybe the Ice Man had actually come up with a decent offer, after all. That could make this whole thing much easier. Though Holmes wasn’t stupid, and probably at this point had deduced his intentions towards Sherlock, so it wasn’t likely. Still, Jim picked up the small packet on the living room table, skimming over the small text. It took him a few seconds to see the tiny ink underlines, scattering around the page. Intrigued, the criminal abandoned reading whatever the Ice Man had to say, in favor of the clumsily coded message.

               **HeLP yOu escaPe tommoroW your windOw elEven pm**

               Jim couldn’t help a tiny smirk. If anyone saw the criminal on camera, it would just look as if he’d been reading the Ice Man’s demands. Hm. He was…pleasantly surprised. Moran might still have use _after all_. If he pulled through, Jim might just allow him his life—maybe even his job.

               Then again, this could be a trick. But quite frankly, the criminal didn’t care about the possibility. He wanted _out_ of this boring place. He’d be dead in a few weeks anyway. And what was life without a little risk?

               And, this way, he had an excuse to talk to Sherlock.

               _Faggot._

  _No. I’m not gay._

               Feeling much lighter than he had an hour ago, Jim brought the papers to Sherlock’s room, pausing outside the door. There was no point to escaping if he didn’t take the detective with him. Otherwise, the Ice Man would want to keep his little brother near and dear until Jim was captured again. And it might be impossible to escape a second time…then the game might _never_ be finished. The criminal shuddered at the thought. How had he ever thought he didn’t want Sherlock dead?

               Hm. To knock or not to knock? In spite of himself, an image of a possible cringe worthy situation pushed itself into Jim’s mind, and the criminal quickly suppressed it. Not knocking was out of the question, then.

               Tentatively, Jim reached out through the Bond.

               _Holmes._

_…_

_Sherlock, I know you’re there._

_…_

Irritated, the criminal increased his volume.

               _Any day would be divine._

_…_

_Answer me. I have a way out of here, if you’re interested,_ Jim paused, _You can see John that way. And Mrs. Hudson. I have what you want. Now answer me._

_…_

_HELLO?_

Fed up, the criminal decided the time for manners was over and turned the doorknob in front of him, barging into his Soulmate’s bedroom.

               The first thing Jim noticed was the lack of energy in the room. If Sherlock had been there, he would have felt it. The second was the open air vent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s to hoping Jim’s internal debates with himself weren't too confusing? Those hopefully won’t be as common as this goes on, since I know I write his mental conversations with Sherlock in the same way. This just seemed the best way to write his thoughts out. Ah yes, and homophobic issues, as previously mentioned, will definitely be resolved by the end of this fic. In a good way. I try to avoid spoilers, but I’d rather give you a little vague spoiler than come off as ignorant (like perhaps the actual show writers). A review lets you ruffle Moriarty’s fluffy bedhead hair.


	14. Synodic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you guys are gonna like this one :)

               Jim stared at the scene in front of him for a few seconds before the reality of what he was looking at hit him. Unscrewed vent cover lying on the floor, side table directly underneath it, faint footprints on the table and wall, lamp and clock tossed on the bed.

               _Oh, you damn fool._

Sherlock had escaped. Not only had he escaped, but he’d taken the most glaringly _obvious_ route possible. How he had even managed to get far enough to unscrew the vent, the criminal didn’t think he’d ever understand. Hadn’t the Ice Man said he’d planned for all possible routes of escape? How the _Hell_ had he overlooked this?

               No matter. Jim didn’t have time to think about this. There was only one thing to do, and that was to follow Sherlock. Whoever was watching the cameras was likely going to notice in _seconds_ that something was wrong. They’d come and restrain him and then he and the detective would _never_ get to finish their game.

               _You’re going to regret this._

_…_

Where the _fuck_ was Holmes? Why couldn’t Jim hear him? The criminal was embarrassed to admit that the fact sent a spike of panic through him.

               Jim took a breath to steady himself. He had to move _now_. There wasn’t even time to go back to his room and grab a coat or shoes—that would only lose him precious time. Thanking his lucky stars he’d dressed comfortably today, the criminal snagged a spare pair of shoes from Sherlock’s closet, and, after lacing them tightly, swiped a stray jumper to throw over his head, as well. Both were too big for him, but there wasn’t time to remedy that. Trying to ignore the detective’s scent on the clothes, Jim stepped up onto the table and hoisted himself into the vent, wriggling in on his stomach.

               The slight warmth to the silver around him made the air harder to breathe, worrying the criminal. The idea of being roasted alive in here held no appeal to him, and because it was winter, it was very likely that this place would get very hot, very fast. Either if the guards decided to smoke them out, or the heat kicked on by itself. Was Sherlock honestly this ignorant? Did he not understand that this was the _noisiest_ getaway they could have made? Not to mention the fact that these vents were made to carry _air._ Not _people._ If they fell through, they’d certainly have a mess on their hands…

               Jim inched forward, pulling himself with mostly his arms and cringing at the way the ground underneath him wobbled with his every twitch. God, it was so claustrophobic here. And it was getting darker. He wished he had a torch.

               His own movement was the only thing the criminal could hear, which he took to be a good sign. As long as there were no sudden clamors of footsteps from behind him, he had the luxury of taking his time and travelling quieter.

               After a few minutes of crawling, Jim reached a crossroads. Halfheartedly, he reached out to Sherlock.

               _Don’t suppose you’re going to tell me to go right or left?_

_…_

Feeling irritated, and still slightly worried at the lack of response from Holmes, the criminal searched both sides of the vent for signs that someone else had come through, to no avail. It was impossible to tell in the dim light, and eventually, Jim settled for the passage on the left, which seemed a bit better lit than the one on the right. At least that might mean it led somewhere. After making the awkward turn in the cramped space, however, the criminal heard a loud switch of machinery from behind, echoing and humming in the vent all around him.

               _Shit._ _Heat._

Jim increased his speed, no longer caring about the noise he was making, disturbed by the way the metal around him was already heating up. After only a few minutes, he was sweating, hot beads of salt water plastering his hair to his forehead. He was sure he looked deranged; a ‘psychopath’, as Sherlock liked to think. Maybe stealing the jumper hadn’t been the best idea. It wouldn’t do him much good to have an extra layer if he roasted before he could even make it outside.

               The criminal wondered if the detective was still in the vents, and hated the way the worry slowed his pace for the few moments he dwelled on it.

               _No. You don’t feel that way. You don’t. Psychopath. Let’s go with that…_

The premise was strangely motivating. All Jim had to do was pretend he didn’t feel and he wouldn’t. Magnificent, the power of the human mind.

               _And ever so boring._

Nevertheless, the criminal allowed his willpower to light a fire beneath him, increasing his pace once again as he pushed emotion to the side. The heat was starting to get very uncomfortable, and Jim resisted the urge to cough every time he breathed in, as the hot air teased his lungs. The jumper, now that he thought of it, was probably a blessing in disguise, since all he’d had was a t-shirt, before. The criminal was starting to do everything he could to keep his hands from touching the sides of the vent, and he could only imagine how much having bare arms on it would have slowed his progress.

               Jim was just starting to wonder how much longer he’d have to spend in this Hellhole before he turned a corner to find, halfway down, two blue eyes staring at him.

               Sherlock’s face was illuminated in stripes from a vent underneath him, and didn’t appear to be _incredibly_ caught off guard by the fact the criminal had followed him. The detective, nonetheless, cocked his head to the side slightly, squinting at Jim as though studying him. The only emotion readable from his end of the Bond was mild interest and…no, there it was. Surprise.

               _What the Hell are you doing?_ Jim widened his eyes to accentuate the statement.

               _…_

The criminal watched the detective with a dangerous expression, _Talk, Holmes. Might as well. You’re with me or against me._

With an audible huff, Sherlock finally replied, _Fine. What does it_ look _like I’m doing?_

_It looks like you’re throwing me to the wolves._

_Hm. Wonder why I would do that._

Gritting his teeth, Jim crawled forward until he was face to face with the detective, irritation coming from both ends of the Bond now. It crackled between them, doing a pleasingly good job of concealing the other emotion they were both working to ignore.

               _Is that my jumper?_ Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

_It’s freezing outside, and hot in here. It seemed useful._

_Why not take your own? I was happy to be rid of that thing._

_Aw. A gift from Mother Holmes? And haven’t you been listening to me this whole time? How have you been blocking me?_

_No. And no. I had better things to think about. I heard everything you said._

_You just didn’t respond._

_Did I hurt your feelings?_ Sherlock sneered at Jim, twisting the criminal’s stomach.

               _Yes, I don’t know how I’ll recover_ , Jim answered sarcastically, _I trust you have a plan to get out, now that we’re here?_

Instead of answering, the detective leaned down over the vent between him and the criminal, surveying the room beneath them.

               _Clear. We have to get down-_

Sherlock’s train of thought ground to an abrupt halt as a loud, disturbing creaking noise vibrated the metal around them.

               _Shi-_

Both consultants practically leapt back from the grate beneath them, Sherlock hitting his head on the low ceiling, but it was too late. The sudden movement sealed their fate, and Jim didn’t even have time to curse before the bottom of the vent gave way under their combined weight, dropping both consultants from ceiling to tiled floor in a tangle of limbs, metal, and plaster.

               All the air was pushed from the criminal’s lungs as he hit the floor with an ‘oof’, burdened with not only the pain of hitting the floor himself, but also with what Sherlock felt, as well. They lie there a few seconds, allowing the dust to settle. Unfortunately, this gave them both time to realize the position they were in.

Once again, the consultants were touching. Only this time, it was more than a hand. Jim could suddenly feel Sherlock’s every heartbeat, his every breath. His nerves were _tingling_ with the possibilities of close proximity, and it pushed his heartbeat through the roof. Not in the slightest reassuring was the fact that the criminal could hear the detective’s every thought, and because of this knew they _matched his_ Sherlock had the exact same symptoms as Jim, and for some reason this validated them in a way that frightened the criminal. After a few seconds, Jim finally managed to breathe, and the detective groaned.

               Dimly, the criminal realized that, underneath him, Sherlock was trying to roll over. The detective coughed, putting a hand on Jim’s shoulder to push him off. Unfortunately, this seemed to suck all the oxygen from the criminal’s lungs all over again.

               _Flushed cheeks. Pupils dilated. It’s well lit in here. Stark white, actually. Sweat on forehead. Panting. Glaring at you. You could make him look like that, if you wanted to…_

_No. Get ahold of yourself._

Jim snuck a glance at Sherlock, but the detective looked just as he felt. Every emotion between them seemed to run parallel. _Fuck…_

               Sherlock got up impatiently, brushing plaster from his coat and giving his hair a ruffle. Jim copied, glancing at the row of computer monitors to their left. Seemed this was the room where the security guards usually watched the cameras. So where were-?

               Oh. They had run off after Sherlock and Jim. That had been the detective’s strategy. These probably weren’t high paid men—not likely to be extremely well educated in strategic matters. It was a risky card to play, as they’d be realizing their mistake any moment now and running back to their posts, but it seemed to have been effective, nonetheless.

               When the criminal looked back at Sherlock, the detective was smirking at him wryly.

               Jim rolled his eyes, _Clever, but flawed. They’ll come back._

_This will buy us time._

Sherlock started pressing buttons, disconnecting cables, and keyboard smashing like a madman. Suddenly, the criminal realized that he still had the knife from earlier tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants. Taking the slightly warm metal in hand, he managed to saw through a few safe looking wires before an alarm started to go off, blaring against the consultants’ eardrums like an angry red siren.

               “Time to go?” Jim shouted, covering his ears.

               The detective nodded, and a loud, distant curse word served to illustrate the point. Without a moment’s hesitation, the two broke out into a sprint, throwing open the nearest door and skidding on tiled floor into a hallway.

               “Oi! I found ‘em!”

               Without glancing in the direction of the voice, Sherlock ran in the opposite direction, Jim close on his heels, lagging slightly due to his borrowed shoes. A number of guards were clearly behind them. The consultants rounded a corner to the right, then to the left, then to the right again.

               _I hope you know where you’re going!_

“Ha!” Sherlock laughed aloud, and it echoed throughout the hallway.

               Suddenly, the detective skidded to a stop so quickly that Jim stumbled trying not to crash into him.

               “WHAT ARE YOU-?” the criminal started to tell off the detective before a hand was unceremoniously clamped over his mouth.

               _Get…get OFF me!_ Jim was having trouble thinking due to the rush of sensation brought by the contact.

               _Then be quiet!_ Sherlock tugged the criminal into a small room, hidden off to the left of the main hallway, shutting the door quietly behind them.

               _Hopefully, they’ll think we went right again,_ Jim thought, inferring the detective’s strategy. His skin still tingled where Sherlock’s palm had been. He was not going to think about Sherlock’s hands. He was not going to think about Sherlock’s hands.

               _Yes,_ the way the detective thought the word was borderline erotic, and he wasted no time in rushing towards the large window at the front of the room, acting as the only illumination in the otherwise quite dim chamber.

               The detective wrenched the glass open and was greeted with an icy spray of water to the face.

               _Perfect! Maybe we’ll get thunder if we’re lucky._

Jim inched towards the open window cautiously, already shivering. He almost missed the hot air vent.

               Sherlock stuck his head out the window, giving a quick look around left, right, down, and, finally, up, before stepping out onto the ledge directly outside without so much as a glance back at the criminal.

               With an indignant huff, Jim followed him, shocked by the cold of the water when it hit him.

               “Close the window!” Sherlock shouted over the howl of the wind. The criminal obeyed, accidentally slamming it a little louder than he’d intended. Jim looked down at the drop off in front of him.

               The cottage was one story, but was positioned on the land in such a way that the consultants were directly in front of a rather steep drop off into the woods. Despite the lack of height provided from the house itself, the slippery terrain coupled with the incline of the hill, and the vegetation covering it, gave Jim reason to question how they were supposed to get down. The criminal looked at Sherlock, who was clearly reaching the same roadblock. Jim had a strange sinking feeling in his stomach, however, once the detective met his eyes. There was something glimmering there that he didn’t like…

_I. O. U._

               Before the criminal had time to react, a hand was on his back, sending him tumbling off the ledge with a yelp of surprise.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim tried to stop his momentum, to no avail. Dimly, he was aware that Sherlock was having a more controlled descent down the hill behind him, but that wasn’t as important to the criminal as protecting his eyes from branches. Within seconds, he was soaked to the bone and freezing, hands covered with thin scratches as he tumbled downwards. Finally, after at least one crack of thunder and three thorn bushes, Jim slowed to a stop on flat, forest ground. After a quick self assessment, the criminal determined that nothing was broken, though his leg _was_ bleeding. Given that his sweatpants weren’t torn, he assumed the knife must have nicked him while he’d been crawling through the vent. Unfortunately, Jim had dropped it at some point. Cursing his carelessness, he was shaking twigs out of his drenched hair when Sherlock slid to a smooth, controlled stop next to him. The detective grunted in what sounded incomprehensibly like pain, and the criminal had just opened his mouth to point this out when he remembered.

               “ _Unfortunately, if one of you is sick, or in pain, the other will feel it, too,”_ the nurse’s voice echoed in Jim’s memory.

               _Ha!_ The criminal threw a triumphant smirk at the scowling detective, _Not such a good idea now, is it, darling?_

Sherlock snorted, quickly straightening up and starting away from Jim. Thunder boomed and the criminal started after him. It felt like his jumper weighed ten pounds.

               _Where do you think you’re going?_ Jim demanded, struggling to match the taller man’s stride.

               _Away from you, ideally._

_It’s pouring. It’s almost winter. We’re in a fucking forest, for God’s sake, Holmes. This was your operation, so own up to it. If something happens to me, it happens to you, too._

“I know that!” Sherlock snapped aloud before quickly clamping his mouth shut. They were still close enough to the cottage that someone could overhear them if they really tried. _That is clear now._

 _You just don’t care anymore, do you?_ Jim deduced, _About the game, about anything?_

_Shut up._

_You know, you are such a bloody idiot,_ the criminal snarled, not caring about professionalism anymore. Maybe it was Sherlock’s emotions getting to him. _So many different ways to escape, and you choose the goddamned AIR VENT? Do you know how dangerous that is? Not to mention how simpleminded? Good God, even Watson could have thought that one up…_

“That’s your weakness!” Sherlock turned to face Jim directly, grabbing him by the shoulders so they were so close that his breath fogged in the criminal’s face when he spoke, “You always want everything to be clever!”

               Realization made Jim relax in the detective’s arms slightly, making him more aware of the fact that they were, once again, touching. Not to mention the fact that they were both soaking wet. And cold.

               _We could keep each other warm…_

_Stop!_

For once, the refutation of Jim’s feelings didn’t come from his own mind.

               _Stop thinking about that,_ Sherlock continued, and the criminal wasn’t sure if he was directly talking to Jim, or himself, or both, _I hate this. I hate you. The game is over. You’re a madman._

               “I make mistakes, but I never make them more than once,” Sherlock was looking quite deranged, “Do you know how that cottage is built? In the living area, the walls are all iron under the plaster. The windows are permanently sealed shut. Giving us knives doesn’t matter when there’s nothing to use them on! The only other way out is the front door, and that’s so heavily guarded there’s not even a fraction of a chance that we’ll get through that way! Mycroft planned for every method of escape save for the very obvious—escape through the vents. He thought we’d assume he’d already fixed those so we couldn’t use them, which is why he didn’t bother. Air vents need to be adjusted often, especially in such a closed off place. It would be more trouble to seal them and unseal them than simply assume we’d never try. We spent just long enough moping around that Mycroft assumed we’d never try to escape. He thought it was safe to let a few of his guards go, since they weren’t doing anything. Time is money, remember? I know how he works—I’ve lived with him. They weren’t valuable employees. They were paid low amounts. Disposable enough to be layed off when their use ran out so clearly not incredibly intelligent. I knew they would all run as soon as I jumped in the vent. I had hoped they’d catch you before you followed. I was wrong.”

               Jim watched with fascination.

               “All of this would have seemed obvious to you were you not so blatantly, unapologetically _ordinary!”_

The detective shoved the criminal away, causing Jim to stumble back a few paces. He frowned, starting after Sherlock, who was already marching away from him.

               “Darling, you can insult me all you want, but the point is you _did_ make the same mistake again.”

               “Shut up.”

               “Ooh,” Jim cooed, enjoying the red hot flash of anger from the detective’s side of the Bond, “You know it, too. Sebastian was going to get us both out of there tomorrow night. I was going to tell you when I found-”

               “I heard all of it!” Sherlock’s voice was starting to go hoarse from shouting over the rain, “I hear everything you think.”

               The two walked in silence for a long time, trying to cover ground quickly. Though, as the detective had rationalized, rain and thunder, coupled with cold, would make a group of low paid employees unlikely to follow them. At least, for far.

               Jim gathered, eventually, from Sherlock’s guarded thoughts that they were trying to find Sebastian. He supposed that seemed logical. Neither had their phones, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have been able to get service out here, most likely. Still, the criminal wondered what the detective planned on doing to ensure his own safety. How did he know Jim wouldn’t try to pull anything?

               It was a long, cold night. And, despite the fact that two romantically Bonded Soulmates spent it next to each other, the only company either had was misery.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit, Jim has had a rough, day, wouldn’t you say? Reviews let you give him and Sherlock hot chocolate and fluffy blankets.


	15. Aphelion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello yes I have mentioned this before but just one more reminder Sebastian is an ignorant shit about some things. I am consciously writing him this way.

 

Sebastian, at this point, had begun to accept death.

               When he’d gone to rescue Moriarty, as he was _sure_ the criminal probably wanted him to do, some sort of alarm had already been blaring. That should have been a red flag already, but he’d decided to get closer. He had, after all, received clearance from Mycroft Holmes for his visit earlier. Why wouldn’t that clearance apply now? It wasn’t as though the elder Holmes was there to assess its validity.

               But Moriarty hadn’t been there. He hadn’t been at his window. It was around this time that Sebastian had started to lose his head.

               What was he supposed to do? Waiting there would only get _him_ in trouble, and all the signs pointed towards Moriarty already escaping on his own. But what did that mean for Sebastian? He understood he was supposed to be undyingly loyal to his Boss, but that didn’t really mean anything if he didn’t have _goddamn directions._ Where the Hell was he supposed to meet Moriarty? Was he supposed to let him just run off on his own? The reception wasn’t exactly fantastic out here, and the criminal probably didn’t even have his phone. Any assumption Sebastian made could be twisted by Moriarty to make _him_ look like the dumb one. He could lose his life, no matter what path he took.

               Cursing to himself, Sebastian had eventually circled back and settled down off on a little side road, trying to be obvious enough that Moriarty could find him if need be, but not so obvious that anyone working for Mycroft Holmes could find him.

               It wasn’t an easy task. He was working _purely_ off of assumptions, the most major of which was Moriarty being more beneficial to work for, in the end, than Holmes. Which was saying something, considering the criminal may very well try to kill him the next chance he got.

               Though Holmes might, as well.

               The rain hadn’t exactly improved Sebastian’s anxieties. Now, if Moriarty _did_ end up finding him, he’d be soaking wet.

               The sniper glanced at his car’s thermostat. Seven degrees Celsius. Soaking wet, and freezing cold. That was enough to make anyone grumpy.

               After two hours, Sebastian decided he’d been sitting there long enough, with no event, to risk checking in the backseat. Maybe he had a blanket or jacket back there; something to warm Moriarty if he decided to show up.

               Extension cord and an instruction manual for something he didn’t care about. Wow. Looks like he was going to have to check in the trunk.

               Sebastian turned so that he was facing forwards again, and did a quick once over of his surroundings again. There were trees in all directions, and it was almost pitch dark, save for the occasional flash of lightning. Currently, it was two am.

               Fuck, he almost felt sorry for Moriarty. And his Soulmate. Sebastian was no expert, but he knew enough to know they felt what the other did. Even without the rain, that had to be rough. Unless said Soulmate was just as twisted as the consulting criminal was. In that case, he didn’t have as much sympathy.

               There was no movement outside, save for the pattering of rain and movement of foliage in the wind, which wasn’t too much, considering the trees blocked most of it. He only had to use his windshield wipers about once every thirty seconds to keep his view open.

               Right. Looks like he was going outside.

               Silently, Sebastian grabbed the current nearest firearm, a simple semi-automatic pistol he always kept underneath the front seat.  It wasn’t the same as a sniper rifle, not even a little bit, but it was a security precaution and a comfort to have. He stepped out into the rain, stowing the weapon inside his jacket. The cool air felt good in his lungs, clean and wet. The sniper’s breath fogged out in front of his face as he made his way towards the trunk and opened it halfway, so as not to get whatever was inside wet.

               All his guns were underneath a fake bottom, but on top, he _did_ have a spare windbreaker. Not much compared to what Moriarty was used to wearing, but it was nice to have something. He was just debating whether to bring it to the front of the car with him, and risk getting it dampened by the rain, when movement a few meters in front of the car caught his eye. Something was rustling in the bushes.

               The sniper’s senses immediately snapped to full attention. He was aware of every twitch of a leaf, every raindrop around him. He watched the spot intensely, not daring to draw his gun in case it wasn’t who he thought it was.

               “Hello?” he called in a steady, but cautious voice.

               Not five seconds later, two figures stumbled out of the brush and onto the road. The taller of the two had a elongated, angular face, and wore a long black coat. His hair was a sopping wet mop of dark curls that fell down to almost cover his eyes. The shorter of the two, Sebastian realized with a shock, was none other than Jim Moriarty. And _Jesus_ , he looked awful.

               His leg was bleeding slightly, there were dark shadows under his eyes, and he looked even paler than he usually did. He looked far more exhausted than his companion; even the usual fiery glint in his eyes that usually made them so unnerving had…faded slightly. He looked spent, and it would have been fascinating to Sebastian, had a glint of silver in the right palm of the taller man not caught his eye.

               Oh. _Oh. OH._

               Holy shit. Was this…was this Moriarty’s Soulmate?

               Sebastian stared, not realizing that the pair was getting closer. The taller one’s eyes flicked over towards Moriarty, barely a ghost of a glance. The criminal’s scowl deepened.

               They were talking to each other.

               “Moran, would you be so kind as to quit standing there, gaping like a fish, and get in the car?” Moriarty’s Irish drawl was as icy as ever. The sniper, however, couldn’t stop staring at the criminal’s partner.

This was Jim Moriarty’s _Soulmate._ Jim Moriarty was _gay._ The greatest criminal in the _world_ was _gay. What the fuck?_ How did _that_ happen? Where the Hell were these rumors about his promiscuity coming from? Who had come up with the stories about his sex slaves? Sebastian had heard the criminal had special suppliers who gave him a new shipment of virgins every week-

               Fuck. Unless they were _male virgins._ Sebastian shuddered, but was quickly broken out of his thoughts by a sharp glance from Moriarty’s Soulmate. With another shiver, the sniper grabbed the jacket and closed the trunk with a satisfying _thump_. Hastily, he loped back to the driver’s seat, now nervous for even more reasons to sit next to Jim Moriarty.             

               Damn. They really weren’t kidding about this whole equality thing, were they? Not that Sebastian had a problem with it, just…wow.

               He felt like his entire worldview was shifting.

               “You need a new driver,” for the first time, Sebastian heard Moriarty’s Soulmate speak. His voice was deeper than the criminal’s, but had the same bored tone to it that he assumed must come with extreme intelligence.

               “I need a lot of things,” Sebastian was temporarily frozen when Moriarty started to pull his jumper over his head, but his heart rate calmed when he saw the criminal had a shirt on underneath. “Your input is not one of them.”

               “Mm.”

               In response, Moriarty threw the soaked jumper at his Soulmate violently. It hit him with a heavy wet noise.

               There was a moment of silence. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Sebastian to note how cold his boss actually was. Every hair stood up on his arms, and while he was clearly trying to steady it, his breathing shook with him as he shivered.

               “Are you ever planning on getting us out of here,” Moriarty snapped, voice trembling, “Or are you just going to-?”

               He fell silent when Sebastian offered him the windbreaker, and, after a moment’s hesitation, took it roughly from the sniper. It was far too big on him, contributing to a new image of the criminal for Sebastian. One that was far less intimidating. It was hard to think about sex slaves when the actual Moriarty was right next to him, shivering, hair looking like a bird’s nest, bleeding through sweatpants and looking sickly and thin.

               It was so _strange_ , but, knowing they had a long car ride ahead of them, Sebastian was able to put his fascination aside for the time being.

               “So, uh…” he cleared his throat awkwardly, “Where to, Boss?”

               “American, really?” the unnamed Soulmate sneered from the backseat, and Moriarty leaned back against the headrest, ignoring the comment...or, at least _verbally_ ignoring it.

               “Just drive, Sebastian,” he commanded miserably.

(o0o0o0o0)

               As they drove, Sebastian had to fight to keep his eyes from wandering to the backseat. The sun was starting to rise now, improving visibility, but he was torn between his fixation on learning more about Moriarty’s Soulmate and, well, keeping his head.

               _Gay Jim Moriarty. Wow._

               It was obvious, from the fluctuation in the criminal’s facial expressions, that the silent conversation Sebastian was left out of was not a pleasant one. Huh. Trouble in paradise, then? It was interesting that they weren’t talking aloud. In fact, it was interesting that they hadn’t both sat in the backseat together. Didn’t Soulmates love that kind of cheesy stuff? Neither of these two were exactly flamboyant, so could that be why? But weren’t Soulmates supposed to be dying to be close to one another, no matter what the cost?

               “For future reference,” Moriarty spoke after a while, voice reverting back to its usual silky smooth, poisonous inflection, “It would be useful if, next time we’re trying to make a quick getaway, you park _less_ than six miles away from our rendezvous point.”

               Blue-grey eyes watched them from the backseat. They held the exact same edge to them that Moriarty’s usually had. Sebastian had no trouble believing that the criminal’s Soulmate was just as cruel as he was, but what he said next proved it, 100%.

               “You’re fighting a losing battle,” the man in the backseat stated, “He’s far too fascinated by your possible sexual divergence from his perceived norm of heterosexuality to pay attention to anything important. I suggest, next time, you hire a less ignorant driver. Really, it makes things more interesting for all of us.”

               “That’s a lie!” Sebastian cried, before he could stop himself. Unfortunately, his response was quick enough that it was child’s play for Moriarty to realize who the true liar was.

               “Do not presume,” the criminal’s eyes seemed to bore holes through Sebastian’s skin, “to know anything about me, Sebastian Moran. Do you understand me?”

               “Yes, Boss.”

               “He clearly doesn’t,” for _some reason_ , the bastard in the backseat kept talking, “Hire yourself a new one.”       

               “What the fuck is your problem?” Sebastian knew he was tired, and was acting rashly, but he didn’t care, “I’m just trying to do my job.”

               “Quite poorly, I would add,” Moriarty sneered. The sniper was beginning to realize what was happening. They thought he was stupid. They thought he was the dumbest guy in the car. He didn’t give a _damn_ about who these fuckers were, or what their status was. He was _not_ going to sit here and be the punching bag for a couple of faggots who thought they were better than him.

               “Maybe,” for the first time, Sebastian looked Moriarty in the eyes—straight in the eyes—with the coldest, most unwavering glare he could muster, “if you gave me some actual _directions_ , I could do my job properly.”

               Moriarty’s voice was steady and cruel, “Funny how none of my previous firsts in command needed all the extra instructions you do.”

               “Guess they were just smarter,” Sebastian gritted his teeth.

               “ _That_ is your first in command?” the voice from the backseat was incredulous.

               “Stop the car,” Moriarty ordered. Reluctantly, Sebastian complied. “Get out,” the criminal didn’t so much as turn around to speak to his partner.

               Without another word to his partner (though Sebastian assumed there was some silent communication happening), Moriarty’s Soulmate got out of the car. There were enough buildings around them now that it was probable they were on the outskirts of London, but still a ways away from the main part of the city. Sebastian hoped for _his_ sake that the fucker had some money on him, or else he was likely going to have a long walk home.       

               “Drive.”

               Regretting his outburst already, Sebastian complied. He was painfully aware of the gun’s weight in his jacket. He could kill Moriarty right now if he wanted. It would be so easy. He was unarmed—that would show him to-

               “Killing me is not in your best interest.”

               “So you’re a mind reader now?” Sebastian was well aware that his voice held too much of an edge to be polite.

               Moriarty paused, allowing the topic to drop, before starting a new thread of discussion. He was trying to make the sniper afraid—that much was obvious.

               “You were quite the sniper during your time in the Army, am I correct?” the criminal’s voice had gone eerily quiet, and Sebastian was convinced that his heartbeat was the loudest noise in the car at the moment. He kept his eyes on the road. Moriarty was _pissed._ The sniper had a horrible feeling that something was about to blow up.

               “Yes, Boss.”

               “You’ve grown quite the reputation over the years,” the criminal continued, “I’ve heard very good things about your accuracy, your talent. Most said you were the best of the best. It’s why I wanted to hire you.”

               “This isn’t sniping, Boss-”

               “Oh, I know, I know,” Sebastian could have sworn the criminal was fighting back a smirk, “I don’t doubt your talents in the art of stealth killing, Moran. Though your common sense,” there was a very distinctive click frighteningly close to the sniper’s head, “could use work.”

               _Fuck. Oh, fuck._

               Sebastian was frozen as the barrel of a gun was pressed more firmly into his temple.

               “Don’t bother asking how,” Moriarty went on, “I’ll tell you, for future reference. I like my employees intelligent.”

               The sniper’s knuckles whitened.

               “Ooh, touched a nerve, have I?” the criminal was well aware that he was rubbing salt in Sebastian’s wounds, “Well, I’m not going to beat around the bush for your comfort. A good sniper shouldn’t let emotions get in the way of his job. In your case, you were so busy taking every measure not to so much as look at Sherlock, I was able to communicate silently with him and convince him to hand me the weapon you’d hidden on the right side of your seat. You didn’t notice any of the movement, because you were so embarrassed at the idea of being in the same vehicle as two possibly non heterosexual men that you refused to look at either of us.”

               “That’s not entirely tr-”

               “Don’t bother. I know it is. You’ll come to learn I am difficult to lie to, Moran. I know how your kind works. Which brings me to my next point,” the barrel was pressed even harder to Sebastian’s skin, “You may think you know how to hold your own in the underground, but the fact is this: You are not special. I don’t care how many times you’ve been told you are the best sniper on the planet by obese mob bosses living in downtown Chicago; you are _ordinary,_ Sebastian Moran. Ordinary and replaceable. Most people would _kill_ to be in the position you are in right now, and, I’ll have you know, sometimes I let them.”

               Moriarty paused. Sebastian knew he was supposed to apologize. He was supposed to say Moriarty was right. But the fact of the matter was, the sniper just couldn’t find his boss that scary anymore. Not like before. It wasn’t enough to inspire the blind fear he’d had before. Now Sebastian felt…just a teensy bit superior.

               Okay, a little more than that. He could, actually, probably beat Moriarty up if he wanted to. After all the pretentious ‘intelligence’ talk, he had half a mind to go through with it.

               Sebastian kept his eyes on the road, “You know, if you shoot me, we’ll probably both die. I’m driving.”

               The criminal grinned, teeth gleaming, “Do you think I haven’t thought of that?”

               “I think you think I’m dumber than I really am, Boss,” Sebastian was on a roll.

               “Oh, sweetling,” Moriarty’s voice was dripping with honey, “I think it’s cute when you think you’re the most dangerous man in the room.”

               “Why is that?” Sebastian demanded, face flaring up at being called ‘sweetling’.

               There was a very loud _bang_ , and everything went black.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger because I’m trash. My my, Sebastian can get a little touchy about certain things, can’t he? Did anyone notice Jim’s little slip up? He calls Sherlock by his first name, even though he’s not in the room. Someone is getting a little more familiar… Sorry for the lack of updates, but I finished my other story, so they’ll start being more frequent hopefully! Reviews let you send Sebastian flowers.


	16. Acceleration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If ever you guys are getting impatient for an update, just check the Cosmic Love tab underneath the crown in the top left corner of my blog. That way, you can see how far along I am in writing the next chapter.

The first thing Sebastian was aware of when consciousness started to return to him was that he was being watched. The sensation of eyes on him, once noticed, brought awareness crashing down on him all too quickly, making his head throb. Groaning deeply, he opened his eyes.

               There was white all around him. Where was he?

               The sniper flexed his hands, noting the soft but flimsy fabric underneath them and covering his torso. This, like the rest of the room, was bleached white. It reminded Sebastian of his old doctor’s office when he’d been younger…

               Oh. Hospital. He was in the hospital.

               Suddenly, the details of the room he was in seemed to all piece together. There was a tangle of machinery to his left, some of which was attached to him. He was vaguely aware of a pressure on his forehead—probably bandages. He’d hurt his head somehow. But how?

               Sebastian’s forehead scrunched in concentration for a moment as he tried to remember, and as he did so, a tender part of his temple was strained slightly by the bandage covering it. At that moment, everything came rushing back in a dizzying wave.

               He was Sebastian Moran. He was an ex US Army sniper for hire on the black market. He’d been hired by the world’s most dangerous criminal mastermind, Jim Moriarty. Jim Moriarty, who was apparently gay. Jim Moriarty who thought he was stupid. Jim Moriarty who had _shot him in the head._

               _Oh, fuck._

He couldn’t be in a hospital! Mycroft Holmes would see his records! _Everyone_ would see his records! They’d figure out he was a criminal and he’d be thrown in jail _forever._ Unless he’d been unconscious for years or something. That would be lucky. Maybe he was in his forties already, and Moriarty was long dead from AIDS or God knows what. That would be nice. Though Sebastian wasn’t eager to be older…

               “Mr. Moran, do you remember what happened to you?” a horrifyingly familiar voice drawled from behind the sniper, somewhere out of sight to his right.

               _Mycroft Holmes._

Sebastian mentally let loose a string of profanity that would have made his grandmother faint. He was screwed. This was it. He was done. Over. Holmes was going to know that he’d betrayed him to help Moriarty again and he’d be sent to some government base to be locked up and tortured for information. That, or they’d dump him in uncharted waters. Sebastian had never been a bad swimmer, but he didn’t think he could make it from open ocean to land. Especially when there were sharks and shit…

               “Is that a no?” Mycroft stepped into his line of vision, and the sniper glared at him. Now that he thought about it, Holmes had the same air of arrogant intelligence about him that Moriarty and his Soulmate had. Did all of these ‘intellectuals’ just live in their suits? Was that something he should invest in? God, the last time he’d worn one was prom…

               With a pang, Sebastian realized Holmes was still waiting for an answer. When he opened his mouth to speak, he found his throat very dry.

               “Can I get some water first?” the sniper tried to look pathetic to buy himself time. Was it worth trying to lie to Holmes?

               “No, you cannot,” Mycroft’s eyes sparkled with malice, “The quicker you answer, the quicker you can go back to…whatever it was you were doing.”

               “Sleeping?” Sebastian answered insolently, trying to sit up. His arms were very stiff.

               “Yes, that,” Holmes waved the word off as though sleeping was an outdated trend, “I will ask you one last time, Moran. What do you remember? Choose your answer carefully, unless you want to go back to interrogation.”

               The sniper winced at the memory and decided lying wasn’t in his best interest. Not while he was incapacitated in a hospital bed with a possible brain injury.

               “I was shot,” he conceded hoarsely, “Jim Moriarty shot me in the head.”

               “ _Obviously_ ,” Holmes said with an implied eye roll, “What were you discussing _before_ he shot you?”

               Sebastian frowned, skeptical, “Why should I tell you? How did you even find me?”

               Mycroft sighed, a long, drawn out, exaggerated sound. For whatever reason, it reminded the sniper of a cat.

               “You were inside a crashed car, and we have files on you. Lack of ID means nothing. You betrayed the British government, Sebastian Moran. For some reason, Jim Moriarty trusted you enough even after you were _clearly_ still involved with us to help not just him, but his _Soulmate_ , escape from between my fingers. Do you know what that means, Moran?”

               “Uh…” the sniper was more focused at the moment on his rumbling stomach than analyzing his psychopathic boss’s motives.

               “It means,” Mycroft continued impatiently, “That Jim Moriarty is displaying _weakness_. Ordinarily, he would have tossed you away like a gum wrapper. Instead, he not only kept using you, but kept you _close_ to him. Either he is feeling suddenly sentimental, or there is something else at work here.”

               “Like…?”

               “That,” Holmes’s voice lowered, “Is what the British government wants you to find out.”

               “You want me to spy on Jim Moriarty?” Sebastian was incredulous, “After how _great_ that went last time? He shot me!”

               “Yes, but it was controlled. It is not easy to shoot someone in the head and do no permanent damage. Do you think that was an accident?”

               The sniper fell quiet for a moment. Holmes had a point.

               “I guess not. But he was furious with me. It was really obvious. He won’t let me get away next time I piss him off.” Sebastian didn’t think it would be easy to forget how black with rage Moriarty’s eyes had been.

               “Indeed,” Mycroft mused, “So this is my dilemma. And yours. Should you choose to help us, you will receive a steady salary in exchange for information on Mr. Moriarty. Your records of having been treated at this hospital will be erased, as soon as you make a full recovery. Not to mention, all previous infractions with the law, British or otherwise, will be ignored.”

               “Great to know that the government plays by its own rules,” the sniper said dryly.

               Holmes tilted his head, “Think of it as a sacrifice for the greater good.”

               “The greater good?” Sebastian couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “Am I helping you take out Moriarty?”

               “Does that bother you?”

               “No, it’s just…”

               “I don’t think,” Mycroft’s eyes strayed, becoming suddenly distant in a strangely human look, “James Moriarty will ever be eliminated.”

               “Why not?” Sebastian inquired.

               Holmes smiled, and the expression so clearly reflected sadness that, for a moment, Sebastian thought he was hallucinating. “The greater good.”

               More confused than ever, the sniper sat back to observe his new boss, “What if Moriarty realizes I’m giving you info?”

               “Trust me, if he wanted you dead, you would be already. All he needed to do was shoot a few millimeters over, and you’d have been brain dead. He has bigger things on his mind. Mr. Moriarty and I have had…dealings in the past. We are well aware of each other’s existence. I doubt he will feel threatened as long as you are careful and keep things vague.”

               Sebastian didn’t want to know what the British government was doing with a criminal mastermind. He did know that a steady paycheck sounded good.

               “Do we have an accord?”

               The sniper stared at the lengthy hand stretched out in front of him as Mycroft Holmes watched him down a hawkish nose.

               “Sure.” The handshake was cold.

               “Good. At the first opportunity presented, you are to insert yourself back into Moriarty’s ranks. Get as close to him as you can. Just do your job for him, and you’ll be doing your job for us.”

               “What if he asks me to kill people?”

               “The greater good, Sebastian. Remember.”

               Sebastian was starting to think that the greater good didn’t really exist.

(o0o0o0o0)

               It was noon by the time Sherlock reached 221B. A part of him almost felt bad for Moriarty’s lapdog. The other part of him was still damp and in a very, very poor mood. The detective took the stairs slowly, ignoring the fact that the door to the flat was already open. He marched straight past an openmouthed John and Lestrade, and had almost, _almost_ reached the bathroom when they decided to engage him.

               “ _Sherlock?_ ” John’s voice was two parts disbelieving and indignant.

               Reluctantly, the detective stopped in his tracks, turning to face them and mentally preparing himself for an interrogation session.

               “Yes?” he raised his eyebrows expectantly.

               John just stared at him, mouth agape. The doctor turned to Lestrade, who was equally shocked.

               “What the hell do you mean, _yes?_ How-? You were… don’t look at me like that!”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I escaped. It’s not that difficult a deduction.”

               “Yes, but you were taken _prisoner_ in a _government stronghold_ , Sherlock! Greg and I were just trying to-”

               “Ah…” Lestrade cut John off hastily, “Nothing. Big brother might be listening. Literally.”

               “Incredible, the London police department is,” the detective drawled, “I was captive for _a week.”_

               Lestrade gave him a sympathetic look that made Sherlock’s blood boil, and took a few steps towards the detective, “Mate, I’m sorry. This is a very delicate situation. If it were up to me, I’d have gotten you out in a heartbeat-”

               “But it’s not,” Sherlock snapped, stalking past Gavin and towards his chair, “And, after all, I _am_ Moriarty now. I’m _dangerous_ ,” he sat down wearily, draping his legs over the side so that he faced John and Lestrade.

               “What about Moriarty?” John changed the topic, “Is he out as well, then?”

               “Naturally.”       

               For whatever reason, both the doctor and the man beside him looked suddenly very uncomfortable.

               “What?” Sherlock pondered them, and they exchanged glances. John gave a tiny shake of his head.

               “Can you hear him now?” John asked gently.

               The detective took a moment to listen in to the Bond more closely. The criminal was in a foul mood, that was for sure. Though he wasn’t physically cold anymore, so he was probably at home. His thoughts were a jumbled mess of emotions. Self hatred, anger, fear, and preoccupation radiated through the Bond and increased Sherlock’s own poor humor.

               _Need something?_

               _Just gathering a bit of information for the police,_ Sherlock thought cheekily.

               _Tell them they need to up their game a little bit. It’s almost starting to make me sad._

               Sherlock looked blankly up at the two men in front of him, “Jim says, in short, piss off.”

               John looked horrified, “Were you…were you just _talking_ to him?”

               “I thought,” the detective grumbled, “we’d established that that would be part of this.”

               “No, but Sherlock,” Lestrade’s expression was the opposite of John’s, “This could be useful! You’re more useful to law enforcement if you’re out and about. This way, you can catch little things about Moriarty that will eventually let us track him down. He’s bound to slip up sometime. No one can control their thoughts all the time. I don’t know why Mycroft-”

               “Mycroft _did_ think of it,” Sherlock interrupted, “He just wanted to watch our dynamic. Make sure he didn’t now have to deal with two Moriarty’s instead of one.”

               “What _is_ your dynamic?” Lestrade inquired, “That is, did you notice anything specific about Moriarty while you two were together? If you were kept close enough to observe that sort of thing.”

               The warmth of his skin. How dark his eyes were. How his voice could go from soft as a feather to rough as tree bark in the blink of an eye. How small his stature was in comparison to Sherlock’s. How his skin looked pale from cold or flushed with heat. What he looked like wearing Sherlock’s clothes. What his hair looked like when it had no product in it. How much he hated being called ‘gay’. Now that Sherlock thought about it, _he’d_ called Jim gay when they’d first met. Had that bothered him?

               The detective chided himself. Damn hormones.

               “We avoided each other the whole time,” Sherlock said quickly, “He in his mind palace and I in mine.”

               John raised his eyebrows, “That’s all you’ve got? What about eating patterns, possible medical conditions? He’s got a mind palace too?”

               Sherlock sighed, “Yes, he does. You’ll find that most intelligent people do. Neither of us really ate anything while we were there. He’s thinner than I am, and more prone to influence by…”

               For _some_ reason, the detective changed his mind at the last second about what he would say. There was something about telling them that Moriarty was prone to emotional influence that seemed…alien.

               Or wrong. Or both.

               “…by cold.”

               Lestrade cocked his head to the side, crossing his arms, “You don’t think he has an eating disorder, do you?”

               “He’s a psychopath,” John answered for Sherlock, “They don’t feel enough to be subject to that sort of thing.”

               The detective didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to forget a stray thought that had just forced its way into Moriarty’s mind. The criminal seemed just as mortified as he was.

               Garrett nodded, biting his lip, “What a mess. I’m going to put in a good word for you at the station, alright, Sherlock? Shouldn’t take much for them to realize you are who you say you are. Especially after we catch this bastard for good. ”

               “Ah yes,” Sherlock said bitterly, “So I can experience every torture they end up putting him through. Why not just send us both to prison?”

               Lestrade sighed, “What do you want me to do?”

               “What _I_ want,” the detective sneered, getting up, “Is to be left alone. Not too much to ask, is it?”

               With that, he stalked away to the bathroom, where he slammed the door and started the shower immediately. John’s eyes were on his back the entire time, as Moriarty’s misery infected his mind.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock shivered as he stepped into the shower, the hot water a shock to his cold skin. He took a moment to get adjusted to the temperature before grabbing a bar of soap.

               His eyes lingered on his Marked hand, and he set the bar down again, bringing it closer to examine it for what felt like the fiftieth time. Even the layer of suds covering it couldn’t disguise the familiar silver shine.

               Sherlock realized absently that he’d been gritting his teeth, and slowly, he unclenched his jaw. He grabbed the soap again and started lathering up his arms. At least this way he could focus on other parts of himself over the disease on his palm.

               Why did it have to be this? _This?_

               He’d been over it a thousand times, but the frustrating fact remained that there was no foreseeable way out of this mess. This was going to be the rest of his life. He and Jim couldn’t even complete their game, now.

               Maybe the criminal was right. Maybe the only way to end it now was suicide. God knew they’d be miserable and bored the rest of their lives otherwise.

               _Unless…_

               A fleeting image of himself and Moriarty flashed through Sherlock’s mind, and he blushed, despite being alone. Well, he was never alone now. Tentatively, he took a quick reading of Jim through the Bond.

               Still a mess. The detective could only imagine that things were, someone in London, being smashed to bits by Jim Moriarty. His end of the Bond was a terrible mixture of frustration and anxiety, and it set Sherlock on edge to the point where he couldn’t really focus on anything other than the criminal’s thoughts.

               _Moriarty’s thoughts_ …

               Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but he felt guilty listening in. Not for Jim’s sake, just…it seemed too _indulgent_ to stay mentally close. He needed to push himself away. That was what he needed.

               The detective noted, throughout the rest of his shower, that Moriarty seemed to harbor an occasional thought of how his jumper had smelled, back at Mycroft’s cottage.

(o0o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock left the bathroom even grumpier than he’d entered it, though considerably warmer. After putting on some clean pajama pants and a loose dressing gown, he’d just stomped to the couch, grabbing the nearest laptop on his way, when it became evident that its owner was staring at him.

               The detective huffed, still just as irritated as Moriarty was, “What?”

               “Sherlock…”

               Uh oh. John’s voice was far too gentle to mean anything good was going to come from this discussion. This meant _feelings_ and _delicate topics._

               He sighed, closing the computer just as quickly as he’d opened it, and half turned to look at the doctor, who stood stiffly with his arms crossed. When he met Sherlock’s eyes, it was clearly with reluctance.

               “What?” the detective asked defensively.

               “Are you alright?”

               Sherlock stared, “…fine.”

               “Really?”

               “Yes,” the detective snapped, turning back to John’s laptop. It had completely booted up by the time the doctor spoke again.

               “Look,” John said softly, still clearly disquieted, “No one deserves to go through this sort of thing alone.”

               Sherlock stared at the Google homepage.

               “And,” John continued, “I just want you to know that you can talk to me. If that’s…what you need.”

               The detective turned, even more annoyed, to his friend. John was uneasy; everything from his crossed arms to his especially stiff posture to his flighty gaze practically screamed that.

               “You’re uncomfortable,” Sherlock voiced.

               The doctor stopped himself halfway through forming the word ‘what’, and instead said, “...Sherlock, you’re the one who ought to feel uncomfortable. I can’t imagine.”

               “Why are you talking like that?” the detective couldn’t stop the increase in volume.

               “Did anything happen? While you two were…?” John was clearly over trying to beat around the bush.

               “No. Nothing of significance took place. I told you this earlier.”

               “That’s not what I mean, Sherlock,” John said impatiently.

               “Say what you mean, then!” the detective abandoned the laptop, standing up.

               “I mean,” the doctor took a breath, lowering his volume, “Jesus, Sherlock. Sit down. I mean, I know how Soulmates work. I know the things it does to people. And Moriarty doesn’t operate by what normal people consider moral. He’s the type who would…” John trailed off.

               “Who would what?”

               John sighed, “…the _hormones_ , Sherlock! He’s a bloody psychopath and a criminal and people like him have no respect for other people, okay?”

               Sherlock couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Well, he could. He just didn’t particularly want to deal with it. Especially given the fact that all of John’s points were correct. Moriarty _had_ been showing the influence of the hormones in his thoughts. But then again, they both had.

               What was really irritating about this was that John felt it was his job to parent him. Like he was _Mycroft,_ for God’s sake.

               “You think he’ll try to _assault_ me?” Sherlock sneered.

               “Don’t tell me it’s an irrational assumption. We can both agree he’s a complete madman.”

               “Fucking Hell,” the detective swore, something he did rarely enough that it caused John’s eyebrows to shoot up.

               “What’s gotten into you?”

               “A psychopath!” Sherlock was already halfway down the hallway, and nothing more was said before he slammed his door.

(o0o0o0o0)

**bonds with psychopaths**

Sherlock scrolled down, irritation finally starting to fade into depression. Moriarty was quiet on the other side of the Bond, his thoughts passing in quick, miserable fragments of abandoned plans and bitterness.

               It wasn’t even enjoyable, now that the detective shared so much of his mood.

               **She Bonded With A Psychopath, And Died Three Months Later**

The detective skimmed the article.

               **Bonds with psychopaths are rare and often tragic affairs that usually end prematurely. This can be due to suicide, murder, or other complications. One of the most famous incidences of a Bond with a psychopath was the case of Chelsea Pratt and Royce Masterson. The couple first Bonded innocently enough at a…**

Sherlock hit control f with more force than was necessary, searching the page for quotation marks.

               **“I could feel myself slowly caring less about the things I usually did. I just started to have these urges to see blood _all the time._ He would hit me and…and…get off to the pain he felt through our Bond. I was a toy to him...”**

**Chelsea committed suicide five months into her Bond with Royce, who later died from complications. She was 23.**

Sherlock leaned back onto his pillows, shutting his laptop.

               This was somewhere around the tenth article he’d read tonight, and they all said much the same thing. No matter who the pair was, it usually resulted in death for both participants. Strangely, there weren’t any cases to be found of _two_ psychopaths sharing a Bond. It was always just one and their victim.

               Sherlock didn’t think he was a victim.

               He didn’t _feel_ like one, at least. Of course, his Mark felt like a disease to him, but wasn’t that almost to be expected? This was what happened when someone Bonded with an enemy. Sherlock had seen enough daytime telly to know that that sort of quarrel was usually resolved.

               He and Jim were still…different, though. They didn’t really have an average Bond. The sociopath and the psychopath. One of a kind. Maybe they could still have their game. Maybe this wasn’t the end. He would defeat Moriarty someday, and it would be through a showdown so spectacular it would make the rooftop look, well, _boring._

               _Jim pushing you down against the pillows. Cold hands unbuttoning your shirt. Touch his hand. Mark to Mark. One more handshake. It would feel so good…_

Sherlock, alarmed, shook the thought away with a slight struggle, cursing hormones and trying to remember what he’d been thinking about before.

               The thought continued to nag at his mind, and he cautiously allowed it to take center stage again.

               It would never happen, obviously. Jim Moriarty was a psychopath. John was the doctor, and he’d even said so. And how could someone so similar to Sherlock not have something wrong with him? The detective was just curious as to why it had been easy to ignore the Bond before, in contrast to now. That was all.

               Sherlock flexed his hand slightly, and his Mark shimmered.

               _One more handshake. Mark to Mark._

Starting to become truly disturbed, the detective used all his willpower to push the thought from his mind. He would not be engaging in any sort of…contact with Moriarty. The very thought was ludicrous. Sherlock _refused_ to allow his hormones to dictate his actions. Especially when he wasn’t sure whether these thoughts were being proposed by his own mind or Moriarty’s.

               Or, even worse, both.

               No. This was the man who’d strapped John to Semtex. Who’d killed innocents without remorse. Moriarty was a monster, and Sherlock was not going to allow himself to be caught in the spider’s web.

               Miserable still, the detective pulled a blanket over himself and tried to think of something other than Moriarty.

               He fell asleep thinking of the criminal’s eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psychopathy is being portrayed in this story inaccurately to show the way both the media and people everywhere loosely throw the term around. I am NOT writing Jim as a psychopath, nor am I writing Sherlock as a sociopath. They have both been labeled these things which really don’t apply to them at all by the fandom, canonically and non canonically. The fact is, most professionals today no longer diagnose psychopathy or sociopathy, which now both fall under something called ANTISOCIAL PERSONALITY DISORDER. I strongly suggest you do research on it if you would like to learn what the term ‘psychopath’ is actually referring to.


	17. Gravity

**1 Week Later**

               Sherlock squinted at the beaker in front of him. This measurement had to be exact, or else he’d have to trash everything he’d done so far and start the experiment over. Having been working for over an hour, this didn’t seem an appealing prospect.

               Slowly, ever so slowly, he started to pour. One milliliter, two…

               Suddenly, it was no longer his own voice counting, but Jim’s.

               _“Three…four…” Jim’s hands would run up Sherlock’s arms. His breath would be hot on Sherlock’s neck and his unshaven face would tickle and scratch where it brushed Sherlock’s neck. His weight would press against Sherlock from behind as his lips parted-_

_“Oops! Ten!”_

The detective’s fantasy disappeared just as quickly as it had manifested, leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen once again, staring at a ruined experiment.

               He swore, setting down the glassware a little too hard with a worrying _clink_. Fantastic! He was going to have to start over. _Again._

               _Focus. Just focus._

               Sherlock bit his lip, stomping away from his experiment towards nowhere in particular. He hated this. He hadn’t known it was going to be _this_ intrusive. When they’d said hormones, he’d thought it was going to be something he could lock away and ignore.

               But he couldn’t, and it was terrifying.

               No matter how much he tried, these thoughts of Moriarty only kept getting stronger. He could push and shove and delete them all he liked, but the fact was, they kept on returning. It was getting to the point where focusing on anything _else_ was becoming a trial. How was he supposed to get anything important done when all that he could think about was Moriarty’s lips on his, the criminal pushing him down onto a desk and-

               _Do you mind?_ Jim snapped. Sherlock wasn’t so much embarrassed by the intrusion as he was surprised that Moriarty was actually acknowledging their Bond at all. He’d been growing increasingly distant over the past week, and the only thing the detective really saw of him was the intrusive thoughts he was also suffering from.

               _Actually, I do,_ the detective sneered back.

               _I’m trying to get work done. And I’ve expressed that I feel nothing towards you._

Sherlock couldn’t stop the doubt that entered his mind. Of course now _technically_ , they both felt something. It was all artificial, though. Just because their bodies wanted something, didn’t mean their minds did.

               Red hot anger seared through Jim’s end of the Bond.

               _Just go for a wank or something. Take a pill, I don’t care. You’re distracting me._

The detective, now just as angry as Moriarty, seethed.

               _Don’t tell me what to do. You’re just as guilty as I am._

_That last one was you. I’m almost tempted to do something myself about this._

_I’m trembling._

_Control yourself._

Sherlock disengaged from the conversation. Of course he needed to control himself. The pathetic thing was, Moriarty was _right._ Both of them needed to exercise more control over their thoughts. Even though the criminal was equally as affected as Sherlock was by this scenario, it always felt worse when the detective was the one getting called out.

               He flopped down onto the sofa, tuning in more closely to Moriarty’s thoughts and his own. All he needed to do was restrain himself. Do some more deleting.

               Jim was currently shooing away his own hormone induced thoughts. The most persistent was still quite fuzzy, but Sherlock could see enough to know it involved his hair.

               _Jim Moriarty is fantasizing about the touch and smell of your hair. Imagine Jim Moriarty’s fingers lacing through it as he pulls you closer, kissing you hard. He’d smell like aftershave and expensive cologne._

The detective mentally cursed. He was not going to think about this. He hated Jim Moriarty. Actually, the more prominent his intrusive thoughts became, the more he loathed the criminal. It just became more of a personal argument, with each speculation.

               Yes, he was angry. That was it. He was angry at the man trying to corrupt his mind. Utterly outraged.

               The light feeling in Sherlock’s stomach wouldn’t be mistaken for anger by _anyone._

               Sighing, the detective returned to his mind palace. There was John, typing a new blog entry at an excruciatingly slow pace. There was Donovan, yelling at Anderson for God knows what. He needed to go deeper.

               There were light, silvery veins that seemed to have infiltrated everything around him, but Sherlock wasn’t planning on acknowledging that. If he did, he’d be giving in. He wanted to find one door. One door he could lock these feelings away into forever.

               Silver was everywhere. And it was terribly warm and sickly sweet; so inviting that it _had_ to be poisonous.

               The detective stomped forward through the halls. Past Molly, who was staring at him like she knew something he didn’t. Past Mycroft, staring down his nose at his little brother. Past even Redbeard. Sherlock didn’t look at any of them. He had to find Moriarty and cut him off; lock him up somewhere so deep he’d never have to look at him again…

               He turned a corner, and there the criminal was. Sherlock froze, taking him in.

               Jim Moriarty was leaning against the wall, sharply dressed in a _perfectly_ tailored suit, lips halfway between pursed and pulled into a smirk. His eyes were as dark as his hair, which was slicked back, as usual.

               Sherlock licked his lips, and the criminal’s eyes glinted with mischief.

               _Damn it all._

               The detective took a step closer to mind palace Jim, who was now stroking his Mark with a thumb, eyes never leaving Sherlock’s. His _eyes…_

               Sherlock couldn’t help it. He really couldn’t. He took a few more steps forward, heart thumping loudly. Moriarty was right in front of him now, chest centimeters from the detective’s.

               What was so strange about all this was that Sherlock had _never_ , not _once_ before in his life, felt such a need to…touch someone. Adler had been intriguing, and John had been good company, but this was _overwhelming_. He’d never before wanted to know every curve of someone’s body, to memorize the imperfections in their skin and touch his lips to their hair. It felt like his thoughts weren’t even his _own_ anymore…

               Mind palace Moriarty was still gazing at Sherlock like he was the most amazing thing he’d ever laid eyes on. The detective wondered what it would be like for _real_ Moriarty to look at him like that.

               _Stop it. Stop it now,_ Sherlock tried to urge himself.

               Nevertheless, the detective narrowed his eyes, looking the criminal up and down. This was just for reference of course. He needed data.

               Who was he kidding? He was giving in. Just this once. After this, he’d stop.

               Sherlock leaned in closer to Moriarty, staring directly into the twin oblivions that were his pupils. Sometimes it was incredible just to see the human side of the criminal. That he was a physical entity even capable of being touched.

               The detective lifted a hand, licking his lips. If he just touched Jim _once_ , that would be enough.

               _You shoving Moriarty against the wall and kissing him hard. His fingers on your skin. Short nails. Heartrate rapid. You can feel everything he does. Every time you touch him, you can feel the way it makes his skin tingle._

Sherlock needed to stop. But _oh, God_ , it was just so tempting to stay and think a little bit longer.

               _Both of you are naked now. Your hand trails down his chest and stomach until you finally reach what you want. He moans your name and it’s heavily accented-_

_No! Enough!_

               The detective snapped out of his mind palace with a ferocity that was almost dizzying.

               He couldn’t indulge in anything like that again. Jim Moriarty was repugnant. That same Irish drawl was the one that had told him to kill himself. Those hands had strapped John to Semtex. How had Sherlock forgotten those things?

               He hadn’t. He knew the knowledge was there, but for some reason, physical need had started to take the first priority.

               Logically, even if satisfying urges was out of the picture, Sherlock knew that the likelihood of _enjoying_ sex, if it happened, was next to zero. He’d never even _considered_ bothering with it before. Jim Moriarty was the type who probably thought of it as a pastime. John was likely right. The criminal would try to hurt him, if it came to that.

               For the first time in a long time, Sherlock was _confused._ He couldn’t think _objectively_ ,because Moriarty _was_ his mind’s only current objective. He couldn’t develop and idea of where to go from here, and he felt absolutely and completely _hopeless._

               As the detective sank down into the couch in despair, it never crossed his mind that, somewhere in London, Jim Moriarty had his face in his hands.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Chilly London air bit at John’s face as he strode briskly through the city. His walk was a little stiffer than usual, as of late, thanks to the fiasco with Sherlock, and it was hurting not only his back, but also his head. He needed a coffee.

               A bell tinkled lightly when the shop door closed behind him, and John welcomed the warm rush of air to his face, inhaling deeply. The aroma of expresso and various seasonings warmed his body further, and urged him forward into the line leading up to the counter. He found his thoughts wandering as he skimmed the menu.

               Sherlock was _really_ off lately, and it was concerning John. Not that he wasn’t usually concerned about the detective’s eccentricities, but this was something else. It was deeply disturbing to see _Sherlock Holmes_ , of all people, struggling with chemistry.

               The causes were clear enough, but John still felt helpless. It wasn’t as though they could _reason_ with Moriarty; the bloke wanted Sherlock dead. Any sentence they gave him, on the other hand, would also affect Sherlock equally. Torture and imprisonment were out of the question.

               And even if they locked him up, he’d still have access to Sherlock’s mind. If he wanted to, he could harass Sherlock twenty four hours a day. And, knowing the detective, he’d probably try to hide it and deal with it himself.

               Not to mention, Mycroft was now ignoring them completely, and things at Scotland Yard were sketchy _at best_.

               _Why_ it had to have been such a strong Bond, John would never know. If it had been weak, at least they could have broken it. Now it felt like his best friend had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

               Yes, that’s what this was. An illness. Of course, the one time Sherlock gets sick, it’s the thing he values the most: his mind.

               With a start, John realized he was almost at the front of the line. Only one person, a petite blonde with cropped, shaggy blonde hair, stood ahead of him, tapping her foot impatiently.

               _Damn_ , the doctor thought, _It’s just coffee. Calm down._

Maybe he’d been standing here longer than he thought.

               Sighing, John quickly chose something from the menu as a tired looking barista handed the blonde her steaming drink. Quietly, she muttered a ‘thank you’ in a voice that _almost_ sounded familiar. That tiny spark of recognition had started to fade when the woman turned around, igniting it again, much stronger this time. Her skin was pale, and her hair looked like it had been chopped with a pair of dull scissors. It surrounded her in tufts, but was accented by her high cheekbones, which jutted out from her face. There were dark circles under her eyes, and most of her face was covered by a huge, woolen scarf, despite the warmth of the shop.

               _That face…_

               “Excuse me?” John squinted at the blonde, wracking his memory, “You look familiar. Have we perhaps met before?”

               He was no Sherlock, but it was very obvious that her posture stiffened after that. Maybe he’d frightened her. John was aware of the barista watching them both.

               “I’m, uh…” the doctor looked her up and down completely, torn between jogging his memory and avoiding embarrassment, “I’m sorry, it’s just….maybe not.”

               John almost wished he hadn’t said anything. She was _very clearly_ trying to avoid his eyes, keeping her own downcast and towards the doors, and ever so slightly leaning away from him. But she seemed _so_ familiar…

               “Je suis désolé. Je ne comprends pas,” she muttered into her scarf, starting to inch away. John was only further intrigued by her poor accent.

               “Oh, come on!” he gave her what he hoped was a friendly grin, “I’m not great with languages, but I can tell when someone is a native speaker.”

               “Se il vous plaît laissez-moi tranquille.”

               She was staring at John’s feet like they were the most interesting things in the world, but couldn’t seem to resist any longer. Haltingly, she raised her eyes to meet his. They were grey as the London sky.

               _“Sorry!”_ a pretty brunette’s voice echoed in his mind.

               Recognition lit up John’s face, and he broke into a grin. What luck! “ _That’s_ who you are! You bumped into me on the street when I was walking to—ah, it doesn’t matter. You changed your hair!”

               Reluctantly, she pulled her scarf down to reveal her whole face. John wasn’t able to tell for sure, but she looked thinner than when he’d seen her last. Although, that had admittedly been quite fleeting.

               Suddenly, he felt like he’d been being too pushy. He cringed, giving her an apologetic look. She watched him carefully.

               “Sorry…about all that. You just…I wanted to talk to you when you ran into me two weeks ago, but I couldn’t…” he ruffled the back of his hair, “Look, if this is uncomfortable for you, I’ll just leave you be. Just thought I should let you know you stood out to me.”

               John hurriedly turned back to the counter, irritated to find the barista still watching them.

               “Don’t be sorry.”

               Spirits lifted slightly, the doctor spun around. The blonde still was looking at him the same, but was no longer leaning away. That was…progress, he supposed.

               “I’m glad to hear that. That I stood out,” she clarified. John noticed she was still glancing around nervously. He raised an eyebrow, smirking at her.

               “You hiding from someone?” he teased, “Might want to practice your French a little bit, if you’re going to be convincing.”

               She laughed, but it sounded forced, “Hm. I’ll keep that in mind,” a small smile teased at her lips, and the doctor’s grin broadened.

               “I’m John,” he held out a steady hand between them, and her eyes flitted between it and his face, filled with apprehension for a brief moment before she took it weakly.

               “Mary.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim had never hated Sherlock more than he did at this moment.

               The criminal lie on a plush sofa in one of his less used flats, watching the detective’s every thought. And _loving it._

               He wanted to vomit. It wasn’t just about ruining the game anymore, oh _no._ Now he had to add _this_ to all of it. Now they had to get emotions involved, something that Jim was all too aware of the consequences of. Feeling was weakness. It was boring. Dull. He would _not_ let that happen to him. He would not let go of the one thing that set him apart.

               Or, he didn’t want to. With each passing second, Jim could feel it slipping away from himself. He wanted more than anything to stop these _damned_ hormones, but no amount of willpower could prevent him from dwelling on Sherlock. His _hair_ , his _skin_ , his _lips._ And good God, his eyes. Jim could almost imagine how the detective’s weight would feel on top of him. Almost. He was tempted to text him…

               _No, no, NO!_

He couldn’t let that happen, because if he loved Sherlock, he was ordinary. If he loved Sherlock, then—

               No. He did _not_ love Holmes. That was a ridiculous idea. _Love_ was an imaginary concept that ordinary people invented to make themselves feel better about the dull, mathematical world they lived in. What they were feeling was _lust_. It was a biological need that had been brought on by this damned Bond. That was it. They would never give in to it.

               But _Sherlock_.

               Sherlock was, to put it simply, brilliant. Jim could still remember the exact smell of his jumper. The exact arrangement of curls that grew on top of his _beautiful_ mind. The chill of his palm when they’d first shook hands. His sharp, calculating gaze. God, what Jim wouldn’t do to poke and prod him for answers until they’d covered every topic under the sun. He could do nothing but listen to Sherlock for the rest of his life and die happy.

               They could have both died happy.

               But dying would mean not seeing Sherlock anymore. _Ever._ Of course there was the risk of the ordinaries ruining it, but that also meant they could spend more time together. Maybe they could shake hands again. Mark to Mark. Just for the hell of it.

               _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock._

Jim started slightly when he noticed the turn the detective’s thoughts had taken.

               Oh. _Oh._

               _Stop,_ the criminal thought miserably. He didn’t need this. He didn’t love Sherlock. He didn’t love _anyone._

               But it was difficult to ignore Sherlock’s mental image. It was also no easy feat to convince himself he didn’t like it.

               _Good God, stop it,_ Jim ordered the detective.

               _Trying._

For what it was worth, the criminal appreciated Sherlock’s efforts.

Wait, what? No he didn’t! He didn’t appreciate anything Sherlock did that wasn’t intelligent! This was an ordinary task and here Jim was praising him for—

               It suddenly became evident to the criminal that a haze was slowly moving over their Bond. He yawned.

               …Oh. Sherlock was falling asleep.

               Jim silenced his mental tirade for a moment, fascinated. He could actually feel drowsiness setting in, now that Sherlock was losing consciousness.

               When the detective finally fell under, he was thinking of Jim’s eyes.

               _My eyes. Mine._

The criminal wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

               Yes he was. It was invasive.

               Jim noticed Sherlock’s sleep becoming more troubled as soon as the thought crossed his mind, and something unfortunately human twisted in his chest.

               Oh, fuck. It looked like he was going to sleep. Not to help Sherlock. He was just tired. And it would be easier now than whenever the detective woke up. Wasn’t as if _he_ was going to do Jim any courtesies.

               As Sherlock’s sleep deepened, it was harder to stay awake. Jim felt himself being pulled closer and closer to darkness as he got changed, and when he finally crawled into bed, it was seconds before he was unconscious.

(o0o0o0o0)

               _The wind chilled Jim’s face and ruffled Sherlock’s curls against his forehead. The criminal felt weightless. He moved closer to the man in his arms, and the detective’s coat was rough against his fingertips. Jim tightened his grip on Sherlock’s arms, and he could feel each and every flex of his Soulmate’s muscles._

_With a slight start, he realized they were kissing. The thought sent a spike of fear through Jim’s chest, but he kept his lips to Sherlock’s._

_They actually were quite soft._

_Jim was two parts exhilarated and horrified._

_Suddenly, the fear in the criminal’s chest transformed into something monstrous. It spread through his body like a toxin, turning his blood to ice and making him jerk away from Sherlock, sprawling on the concrete._

_It was dark. He tasted blood. There was blood sticking to his arms and he wanted to scream but couldn’t and someone was hitting him that he couldn’t see. His lips hurt; the skin had been torn away by repeated contact with some rough surface, and it was hard to believe just a minute ago they’d been so soothed by Sherlock’s._

_Jim still felt weightless, but it was a terrifying thing. It wouldn’t end when he hit the ground. They’d keep hitting him and hitting him and hitting him until he coughed up blood and—_

_Someone kicked him in the leg, sending a shooting pain through the entire appendage and knocking all the breath out of his lungs. He couldn’t breathe…_

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim awoke on the floor, his leg still hurting where it had been nicked by the knife during his and Sherlock’s escape, a week ago. There was still a slight bruise there, along with several others scattered across his body.

               The criminal struggled to draw breath. It took a few panicked tries before he was able to produce a long, rattling gasp. Breathing heavily, he slumped down onto the floor, breathing heavily. His pajamas were soaked with sweat, and the blankets of his bed were twisted around his legs so tightly that it was a struggle to get them off.

               _Calm down. Fucking hell, calm down._

               With another stab of panic reminiscent of the one from his dream, Jim realized that Sherlock had probably seen that entire dream. That was part of this ‘Soulmates’ thing, wasn’t it?

               _Oh, God no._

The criminal’s heartrate instantly picked up, and he got up off the floor so quickly that he felt dizzy. Swaying on his feet and trying not to pass out, Jim grabbed onto a bedpost. His stomach was growling. When had he last eaten? He took a step towards the bedroom door, only to freeze in his tracks.

               Sweat wasn’t the only thing he was soaked with.

               Jim’s hands were shaking.

               _No, no, oh God no._

               His heart was in his throat, and his breaths came loud and fast.

               _Fucking hell!_

This was not going to happen. It _couldn’t_. Jim was not going back to how things were before. He hated Sherlock. He _hated him_.

               Furious at his body’s betrayal, the criminal grabbed a bottle of cologne and hurled it at the wall. It shattered into a thousand droplets of expensive liquid, and glittering glass that skittered across the hardwood floor. Jim stared at the wreckage, knuckles white.

               He couldn’t let this happen.

               Already regretting his outburst, he covered his mouth with a hand. The scent was already starting to choke him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MARY GUYS MARY ARE YOU EXCITED BECAUSE I AM. My goodness this has pieced together far better than I thought it would oohhhh things are going to be getting VERY interesting VERY soon. Reviews give Jim and Sherlock some Christmas cookies.


	18. Collision

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t normally say this but 10/10 would recommend listening to the 1975 when you’re reading this chapter.

 

**Be in place at eight. JM**

**Done. BL**

Jim set his phone down, staring at nothing in particular. This was how it had to be; he couldn’t think of anything else to be done. For the past week he’d been living in a haze of want, and it wasn’t tolerable. Something had to give.

               He couldn’t live like this, and he didn’t think, deep down, Sherlock could either.

               Something ached terribly in his chest; something that was horrified and sickened by the idea of a world without the detective, but Jim ignored it. He’d be dying too, after all. Remorse for that sort of thing was impractical. Especially when he’d be dying next to Sherlock. That wasn’t so bad. It was the rooftop all over again.

               Except…this felt more like a suicide.

               Jim ignored his own disquiet and picked up his phone again, pretending his heartrate didn’t pick up when he pressed Sherlock’s name.

               **I have a proposition for you. JM**

It was seconds before he got an answer.

               **I’m listening. SH**

The criminal stared at the florescent text.

               _Listening, listening, listening._ Sherlock was always listening. He knew what was coming. He knew what Jim was going to do. He was signing his own death certificate.

               He was right next to Jim. He always seemed to be. And that needed to end.

               **Drinks tonight? JM**

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock watched his reflection, feeling like Moriarty was looking right back at him.

               _Tonight. It’s ending tonight._

               He almost was tempted to write John a note, but what would that do? The doctor would doubtless try to stop him, even though the reality was he couldn’t live like this anymore. There was no other way. The Bond ensured whatever happened to Moriarty happened to him, so wasn’t it just more efficient to let the criminal self destruct before he did more damage? It wasn’t as though London would have much use for Sherlock once Moriarty was gone.

               _Jim’s hand, cold on yours._

_No, stop. For God’s sake stop._

Sherlock refused to think about Moriarty in that way anymore. This had gone far enough. The fact of the matter was, the two of them simply couldn’t coexist side by side. Doing so would require compliance, and that was something the detective wasn’t willing to offer. He assumed Jim wouldn’t either.

               It was, he supposed, courteous that he’d received this offer via text. Moriarty could have always just _thought_ the offer. It was less intrusive this way. Representative of simpler days before the game had been ruined by biology.

               They’d both been too much for this ordinary world. Sherlock had always felt isolated. Now that he didn’t have a nemesis, what did he have?

               _John. Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade._

But they couldn’t help him anymore, could they?

               Sherlock glanced himself over one last time, then at the clock. It was only seven now, and he and Jim had agreed on nine. Nine sharp in an unpopular pub on the west side of London.

               He _wished_ his heartrate would slow. If only his body understood that this was not an occasion for giddiness. His hormones made it seem like this was a _date_ , for God’s sake.

               _Jim smirking at you. What would he look like laughing?_

Sherlock did a quick check of Moriarty’s side of the Bond. Just out of curiosity. His emotions were roughly the same as the detective’s. He was trying not to think about Sherlock. There was a very light feeling in the criminal’s stomach; a sort of restlessness that seemed to seep into the detective the moment he acknowledged it on the other side.

               Brilliant. Simply brilliant.

               On second thought, maybe he _should_ write a note to John. People did like closure for these sorts of things, didn’t they?

               The detective ventured into the main room for paper and a pen, only to find John about to head out the door.

               _Dressed immaculately. New sweater. Unconsciously sucking in stomach. Hands steady. Not to mention the bouquet of flowers. Roses. Very original, John._

Sherlock raised an eyebrow when he met his friend’s eyes.

               “Date tonight,” John smiled, clearly excited, “Don’t wait up for me.”

               The detective never waited for anyone, but disregarded the statement as unimportant, “Mm,” he continued to rustle through the mess on the table.

               John was still standing there, and after a few seconds, Sherlock looked up, studying him.

               After more awkward silence, the detective finally cracked.

               “What?”

               “Are you going to be-?” concern softened the doctor’s voice in the most _infuriating_ way.

               “ _Christ_ , yes.”

               “Okay,” John was quickly reassured, turning to leave, “Wish me luck, then!”

               “Mm.”

               And just like that, the doctor was gone. Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but it hurt a little bit how quickly John had accepted that he was fine. Not that he would have _told_ him the truth if he’d asked, but the fact that the option wasn’t even there was what started the detective’s pen moving.

               _~John~_

_Won’t be seeing you again, so we’re going to have to do it like this. This is my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a_

Sherlock paused, Moriarty’s voice echoing in his mind.

_‘That’s what people do!’_

The detective crumbled the note. This was between him and John. He wasn’t going to let Moriarty snake his way in. He started over.

               _John,_

_This is my note. I want you to tell everyone that it was too much. Moriarty_

Sherlock stared at the way he’d flicked up the end of the ‘y’ in the criminal’s name with disgust. He crumbled the paper and started again.

               _John_

_I’m sorry it has to be like this. Jim and I are_

Fucking _hell._

               The detective glanced at the clock. 8:45. Something seemed to go cold inside him.

               Alright. No note then.

               Sherlock tossed all his scrambled sentiments into the bin. His pulse was still quickened. It warmed him and numbed him to what he was about to do.

               It didn’t feel like a suicide.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock stepped into the pub at precisely 8:55. His eyes scanned every face in the room twice, but it was evident Moriarty hadn’t arrived yet.

               He took a seat and declined the bartender’s offer of a drink, mumbling that he was waiting for someone.

               The detective hated himself for how Jim remained the only thought in his mind, instead of John. Instead of _anything_ else, really. Anything that he was giving up.

               Sherlock only wished that his last thoughts would be clean of this thing everyone else called a Bond. A Bond implied emotional closeness. This was a chain. It was a sentence, and he hated every minute of it.

               Because while, _yes_ ¸ a surface level personality enjoyed hearing Jim’s thoughts and emotions, deep down Sherlock knew he didn’t really feel that way for the criminal. The game had doubtless been intriguing but…nothing of that sort could have ever happened. It was unappealing to him, and most likely was to Moriarty, as well. Romance wasn’t meant for people like them. This was all an accident. An unfortunate accident. Though Sherlock honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he would have stayed around had he never Bonded. He was really only missing out on a few more good years with John, before the doctor inevitably settled down. Something about the way his eyes had glowed when he’d headed out the door told Sherlock he wouldn’t have trouble moving on.

               The detective glanced towards the door. He actually was looking forward to Moriarty getting here.

               Turning back to the bartender, he ordered a scotch to help pass the time. Sherlock was so engrossed in his thoughts after that that he didn’t even notice when someone sat down on the other side of him.

               “You’re early.”

               And just like that, with two little words, Sherlock fell back into the lovesick stupor he’d been in for the past week. That _accent_ was like _velvet…_

               Hating himself, the detective turned away from the door to a dark haired man with thick framed, but in style, glasses that accented eyes as dark as the rest of his outfit. Sherlock was sure if he looked close enough, he’d find they were doing nothing for Jim’s vision, though they certainly softened his ordinarily sharp gaze. It was more intellectual now; he almost looked like a professor. His hair was free of product for once, and the criminal was clearly already comfortable, swiveled in his chair so that he was angled towards Sherlock. He leaned back, legs crossed and head tilted slightly as he surveyed his Soulmate.

               He was, in fact, a work of art, but despite his (their?) rapid pulse Sherlock kept a pokerface.

               “You’re late.”

               Jim ordered a scotch. They evidently had similar taste. He didn’t answer until it was brought to him, and even then after taking a sip and setting the glass down with a _clink_.

               “I had things to do.”

               Sherlock nodded slowly, fixated on the criminal’s lips.

               “You were setting it up,” he deduced.

               “Oh, well spotted.”

               “How?” Sherlock asked curiously, _How are we going to die?_ If this was going to affect both of them, he wanted a say in it. He knew of a few poisons that would be _brutal_ to die from.

               “Don’t worry,” Moriarty said curtly, taking another sip of scotch, _I’ll be shot. It’s fairly quick. I’ve done research._

_Did this research include first hand experience?_ Sherlock’s thoughts were cutting, and the criminal, clearly offended, gave him a frightening look.

               _I don’t know, did yours?_

Sherlock remembered standing on top of a dying, bleeding cabbie, and quieted. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know how Moriarty had accessed that memory.

               _So this is it, then,_ the detective thought. Jim’s eyes darkened.

               “Talk out loud,” he snapped. Moriarty’s Marked hand rested on the countertop, his drink in his left, dominant one. Sherlock wasn’t sure why, but he felt this was important.

               It may also have been important to note that a little bit of the panic, the disgust that had infected Jim’s side of the Bond for the past few days, seemed to have faded since he’d arrived, to be replaced by something more melancholy. Even that was starting to subdue, for whatever reason. It was strange, but definitely not unwelcome.

               They took in alcohol and each other for a few quiet moments.

               “It’s been good,” Sherlock was shocked at the Irish drawl that spoke the words. He turned to find Moriarty was avoiding his eyes.

               “Before,” the detective corrected. He knew that to be Jim’s sentiment exactly. Why did he want to voice it aloud?

               “Before,” Jim nodded, taking a sip of scotch. _There used to be a chase,_ he continued silently, _It was better having to fight to know one another’s minds. Once it’s given to you it means nothing. That’s why this isn’t working._

_‘This.’_ Sherlock thought about the word. So there was something there. There was potential. A more rational part of his mind reminded him that he didn’t care about that, and Moriarty hummed a laugh.

               “Hm,” the criminal blinked. Someone guffawed loudly at the other side of the bar.

               Sherlock was very aware that Jim was studying his profile. Despite the fact that he _knew_ Moriarty could read his thoughts, he pretended to study his scotch.

               The interaction was mysteriously…consensual. By God, were they _flirting_?

“Tell me this,” Jim was mildly uncomfortable at the detective’s recent theory, “Why give me the gun?”

               “Why ask for it?” Sherlock countered, finally turning back towards the criminal, who was, for a moment, fixated on his eyes.

               Apparently, they were a nice blue. The detective took another sip of scotch.

               Jim opened his mouth, but it was a moment before words finally left him, “…I knew you would give it to me. And I needed a new sniper.”

               Sherlock made a face, “He was ignorant.”

               “And in my world,” something dangerous danced behind Moriarty’s eyes, “ignorance gets you killed.”

               “Sounds intolerable.” _I’d know._

               Jim laughed humorlessly, “Ha. Holmes, you’ve been here two weeks. Welcome to Hell.”

               “Is that not where we’re going?”

               _We’re._ The word hung between them. Of course, they’d silently agreed to this, but the realization that they were actually doing something together was an alien one, despite the fact that their minds had been connected for the past two weeks.

               The criminal remembered the rooftop. _“I may be on the side of the angels, but don’t think for one second that I am one of them.”_

_What made you think I was an angel?_ Sherlock inquired.

               Jim tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly. Dimly, the detective noted that the criminal’s phone was vibrating in his pocket.

               “If you’re no angel,” Moriarty asked slowly, “What am I?”

               _Me._

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim ignored Sherlock’s last word and took out his cell. One new message.

               **Found her. –DP**

Despite the fact that it _should_ have no longer mattered, the criminal couldn’t help feeling satisfied. Satisfied, and a tiny bit smug.

               **Picture? –JM**

A clear snapshot of none other than his former first in command, Jo, appeared in seconds. She’d dyed her hair blonde, and had lost a bit of weight, but this was undeniably her. The bitch who’d left him for dead on the rooftop. And she was standing right next to none other than John Watson.

               Oh, _this_ was interesting.

               Sherlock’s attention was piqued at the criminal’s thought of his pet. Carefully guarding his thoughts, Jim typed out a reply.

               **How familiar are they? JM**

**They seemed to have just met. DP**

**How certain are you? JM**

**Very. She was visibly uncomfortable. DP**

Hm. Well, that made this easier.

               **F180. JM**

**Sure thing, Boss. DP**

Pleased, Jim put his phone back in his pocket and leaned back with his drink. Ordinarily, he’d only encourage his own reputation with rumors and the activities of his henchmen, but he was tempted to make this one personal.

               Maybe that was just the torturous way Sherlock was looking at him, though.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Something good had happened, Sherlock knew that much. He could see it involved one of Jim’s little threads. The criminal was pleased now; almost cocky. Though what worried the detective was the mention of John’s name. He hated himself for it, but bringing the doctor into the conversation irritated him.

               “Don’t worry,” Jim read his thoughts, “He’s not in trouble.”

               Sherlock studied the criminal, who had swiveled in his chair slightly, infuriatingly, so that he was farther from the detective.

               _Turn back please._

               “Why does that matter to you?” Moriarty voiced aloud, and Sherlock blushed.

               “That’s not fair.”

               “You thought it. It’s fair game.”

               “I was under the impression that those conversations were to be kept silent.”

               “Why?” Jim raised his eyebrows, and the detective bit his lip, frowning.

               “Fair enough.”

               Sherlock noted that his heart was beating far too quickly to be normal. He’d say he was drunk, but a quick glance at his scotch showed it only half finished. This was…all them. And that was more terrifying, because the longer he sat, the more completely _intoxicated_ he became by Jim. This wasn’t helped by the fact that a ghost of a smirk managed to twitch the corner of the criminal’s lips upwards, before he bit his lip and stifled it.

               “What?” Sherlock inquired for the second time that day. The questions couldn’t have been more different, despite their wording.

               “Ah…” Jim appeared to be quickly losing control; he was now fighting off a full on grin. He bit his lip and blinked and shook his head but, regardless, ended up smiling into his scotch. “You…you’re not very good at debates.”

               Sherlock blinked. Was that what they’d been doing? But he could do better!

               “I really don’t know you can,” the criminal turned back to him, a teasing, condescending smile twisting his lips.

               “I can!” the detective said defensively.

               “Prove it,” Jim leaned forward, “You talk big.”

               Sherlock’s eyes lit up at the challenge.

               “Name the topic,” he quirked an eyebrow, enjoying the way it made Jim’s pulse spike.

               “Hm,” the criminal huffed breathily, eyes not leaving the detective’s, “Let’s talk about…” he stared into Sherlock a moment, “Astronomy.”

               Sherlock sighed laboriously, “Astronomy is based off fact. What is there to debate?”

               “So is history,” Jim turned so that he was facing the detective even _more,_ “But people will debate that for hours.”

               “History is written by the winning side,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Of course eventually the other will speak out.”

               “Didn’t take you for a philosopher,” Jim eyed him snidely.

               “No. Just intelligent.”

               “We’ll see. Tell me, Sherlock; is astronomy a worthy field of study at all?”

               “Depends on the point of view of the individual. Next.”

               “Don’t be rude,” Jim scolded, “Tell me what _you_ think.”

               “ _I_ think the Earth would go on spinning whether we knew it did or not.”

               The criminal nodded thoughtfully, “You don’t think it means anything,” he said slowly, “to know the bigger picture?”

               “If it’s irrelevant.”

               “We’d know nothing about ocean tides,” Jim persisted.

               “Someone would map them out anyway,” Sherlock countered.

               Something suddenly dawned on Jim, and his brow seemed to relax ever so slightly, “There’d be less to map.”

               There was a softness to the criminal’s voice that made the detective feel strange. He quieted a moment before answering.

               “We’d be more confined,” he mused.

               Jim silently agreed, and Sherlock watched him, feeling as though he’d never properly seen the criminal before.

               Or, like he’d never seen Jim Moriarty before. The other had been an impossible to contain, inhuman thing; deadly and fascinating. Now where madness had danced behind his eyes there was something else. Something that Sherlock wanted to be closer to.

               If he didn’t know better, he’d say a person like him. A Soulmate. Not that Sherlock had ever really considered himself a ‘person’ in the way most people used the word. He’d always been an outcast. Like Moriarty.

               _You lose,_ Jim turned to face him completely, and their knees brushed, making Sherlock go very still.

               He was _certain_ that even if they hadn’t been Bonded, Jim would have been able to easily hear his heartbeat.

               Neither of them moved. Their legs were still touching. Sherlock’s abdomen felt very light. Jim’s was the same. He and the detective stared at one another for a moment.

               _Are you drunk?_ The criminal’s brow furrowed as he searched Sherlock for the typical signs. There was nothing. _Nothing._

               _No._

Jim licked his lips, absolutely refusing to look down at where they were _still_ touching. He blinked a few times. Swallowed.

               “Uhm,” he sounded almost offended, though somehow not entirely displeased, as a coy smile was twisting his lips once more, “Sherlock…”

               Sherlock knew what the criminal was going to propose, just as he knew neither of them would like it. Their Bond seemed to be buzzing with electricity; feverish and new. As far as the detective was concerned, they were the only people in the room.

               It suddenly became evident to Sherlock that he and Jim were much closer than when they’d first sat down.

               _Are you going to move?_ Jim asked.

               _Do you want to?_

               There was a very long pause. The criminal did a little more thinking on Sherlock’s eyes and hair.

               _No._

Jim’s hand was within reach. It would be _so_ easy to take it. Sherlock wanted to. More than anything, he wanted to.

               Well, not more than _anything._

               Sherlock imagined touching Jim’s lips with his. The criminal’s skin scratching against his. Their breaths intermingling. The thought was so vivid that he could read it on Jim’s face, just as well as see it in his intake of breath.

               “Well aren’t you clever,” Moriarty muttered, making their Bond buzz with energy.

               _Can’t debate, apparently,_ Sherlock inched his hand closer to Jim’s. Brown eyes didn’t leave blue.

“I came here to kill you,” the criminal’s voice was barely audible. Their hands and faces were barely apart.

               _And now you’ve almost convinced me I’d rather kiss you,_ Jim finished. Sherlock wished glasses weren’t a part of the criminal’s disguise. Those were going to be an obstacle.

               _You talk like this is set in stone,_ Jim pointed out.

               _Oh, but it’s not,_ Sherlock’s hand inched forward like a snow white tarantula; terribly gentle.

               Without looking away, Jim took his phone out of pocket. A challenge glimmered in his eyes.

               _Convince me._

The tips of Sherlock’s fingers brushed Jim’s. Every muscle in the criminal’s body froze. The oxygen seemed to have been stolen from his lungs, and he was helpless to do anything but watch as Sherlock slowly, painfully covered his hand completely. The detective wrapped his thumb around Jim’s palm, which was still mostly flat on the counter. The gesture was an easy one to break; not terribly committal.

               Jim’s facial expression could only be described as horrified, though his emotions Sherlock could read just read…surprise. He hadn’t expected to feel safe. The detective’s palm was a reassurance of something so deep set in biology that the criminal wasn’t able to explain it.

               Moriarty’s pulse was wild. His mind was blank, except for this new realization of ‘ _oh…’_ that seemed to have hit him. This new, _mad_ realization that no matter what was rational, he really wanted to get closer to Sherlock. More than could be overshadowed by logic. His heart was helpless.

               _You win._

               Sherlock would have leaned in right then. He _almost_ did, but a small plea in the back of Jim’s mind stopped him.

               _Wait._

The criminal set his empty glass down and took out his phone. They both knew what they were going to do. They’d been far too stupid so far tonight to do anything else. Jim twisted his hand in Sherlock’s as he typed, and it was like some kind of pleasure drug was being injected into a vein wherever the detective touched.

               The message the criminal sent consisted of two words.

               **It’s off. JM**

Some sort of affirmative reply followed that Jim disregarded as he put his phone back into his pocket. Sherlock stared him down determinedly. Jim was practically jittering with apprehension, despite the way he kept making little movements of his hand that made Sherlock feel lightheaded.

               Oh, this was _stupid._ It was so brilliantly stupid that only an idiot _wouldn’t_ do it.

               _You can lean._

_Hm._

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock leaned in a few inches. He could see every detail of the criminal’s eyes; they didn’t look completely black anymore. Rather, large pupils were surrounded by a deep brown.

               Jim eliminated a few more centimeters. They were too close now for eye contact. It was too late to do anything else now. Sherlock had quite possibly felt less overwhelmed when the criminal had stolen the crown jewels. Though he couldn’t say the adrenaline measured up to this.

It was unnerving, having to close his eyes and trust that Jim would be there to meet him. It felt like thirty seconds before they finally touched, even though it was probably closer to three.

               They bumped noses first, if such a rough word could be applied to something so soft. After a moment of blindness, however, they found their way, tilting their heads and finally meeting.

               Sherlock didn’t know why everyone said they saw fireworks. That seemed entirely inaccurate to what he currently was feeling. He almost pitied anyone who saw fireworks, because where they saw explosives, cheap and manmade, leaving stains of smoke on obsidian skies, he saw stars.

               The whole thing was very soft, he decided. He didn’t feel like he needed to be doing anything but this. He wasn’t bored. Sherlock could taste their drinks. Jim’s lips were slightly chapped and he smelled like cologne and faint aftershave. Evidently, the detective had an accurate imagination.

               _Do you know what you’re doing?_ Sherlock inquired.

               _No. Do_ you _?_

The criminal pulled away to glare at his Soulmate. Their lips made a delicate noise. A bit of panic was back in Jim’s eyes.

               “What was that?” from the way he said it, Sherlock almost was convinced he was talking to a soft spoken, Irish professor instead of a criminal mastermind. He sounded small. Emotional and unsure. It wasn’t _entirely_ unpleasant, though the detective didn’t want Jim uncomfortable on his behalf.

               _What was what?_

_Are you making fun of me?_

_No._

Jim blinked. His cheeks were slightly flushed. He gave a small accepting nod.

               _Can we…?_

_Yes,_ Sherlock agreed, _Keep going._

They leaned in again, this time meeting more smoothly, and with a little more force. Sherlock parted his lips slightly, and Jim hummed against them. The criminal broke their handshake to put a hand first to his Soulmate’s shoulder, then neck, and eventually hair. His fingers laced through Sherlock’s curls, though he was obviously being careful not to pull.

               Their knees were still touching.

               Tongues stayed in mouths, though both parties were starting to want that to change rather desperately. It was strange, this kiss. Sherlock didn’t have much prior experience, but it was still odd to be able to not only see but _feel_ everything he made Jim feel. Every shiver and twitch was written into the Bond with every movement.

               It was all engrossing, and so occupied were Holmes and Moriarty that they didn’t notice or hear, a few tables away, a silver haired man nearly choke on his beer when he noticed them. Wide eyed and distraught, he took out his phone and typed out a message.

               **Apple has been bitten. GL**

**Who was it? MH**

**Sherlock. GL**

**God help us all. MH**

The more they kissed, the deeper they fell. Not necessarily in love, but into the helpless grips of the Bond. Sherlock’s abdomen felt very warm. His stomach still fluttered, but in a subdued sort of way, because now there was something far more determined in his chest.

               _Just an experiment._

_Just an experiment,_ Jim agreed.

               _I’m lying._

_Fuck, I know._

               He was very aware, suddenly, that John was going to be gone for the evening.

               “We have to stop,” Jim pulled away, speaking the first words in a long time, “This isn’t decent.”

               Sherlock said all he was thinking with a look.

               _We could go somewhere else._

_Are you serious?_

“John’s out,” Sherlock murmured.

               “Sherlock…” Jim moaned quietly. The detective couldn’t help but picture it in a different context, and the criminal silently reprimanded him.

               _We both want it._

_I know,_ Jim thought miserably.

_And?_

Moriarty took one long, last look at him. The criminal wanted to go through with this. _So_ badly…

               Finally, he nodded. Rationality was a concept currently absent from his thoughts.

               _Let’s go._

 

                             

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a need to warn you all about the next chapter and explicit scenes in general. While this is an explicitly rated fic, I am not going to write you plotless porn. There will be dialogue and plot and awkward moments. I try not to write things people can just pull up and jack off to, because that’s not something I’m comfortable writing. There will be sexiness, don’t get me wrong, but you have to remember that this is Sherlock and Jim, not two actors in the porn industry. They are geniuses, and they see things differently. I don’t mean to put you off or worry you (most of you needn’t be), I just want to tell you that the next installment isn’t going to be just a ‘watch them have hot gay sex’ chapter. A lot of the fandom turns to Sheriarty as their kink ship, and that isn’t really how I’m writing these two. Anywho, reviews are always welcome. Hope you’ve enjoyed this temporary change from the angst!


	19. Occultation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note that my blog’s format has changed. If you’d like to see next chapter updates, just look at the tab at the top of the page.

Sherlock and Jim paid their bill and were out the door as soon as they knew where the night was going. The night air was icy on their faces and hands, and yet neither had ever felt so warm. Both of their pulses were quickly getting out of control, and this wasn’t helped by the fact that they could each feel _exactly_ what the other did.

               “Taxi!” the detective waved down a cab, and the Soulmates slid into the backseat, Sherlock on the left and Jim on the right.

               The criminal was already imagining what tracing Sherlock’s collarbone would feel like, only aroused further by the approving regards­ sent his way by the detective. What had been sensual undertones in the pub was very quickly evolving into something far more out of control. To some small, stifled part of Jim’s conscious, this was terrifying beyond belief, but the majority of his mind was already moaning at the direction things were taking.

               _What will we do if Watson is there?_ Jim tried to regain a little bit of ground, ignoring the rather explicit idea Sherlock was currently proposing.

               _He won’t be,_ the detective seemed uncomfortable at the idea. Almost irritated.

               _You just don’t want him to be._

_God, no._

Jim tried, and failed, to steady his breathing as he turned to Sherlock. Evidently, the detective had already been looking at him. The cab was dark enough that most of his face fell under a shadow, but it was still very easy to observe his arousal. Sherlock’s pupils were dilated, and he was giving the criminal a look he wasn’t sure he’d received from _anyone_ before.

               Not anyone he’d cared about, at least.

               _Hell, Sherlock._

_You’re looking at me the same way._

Jim paused, _…Am I?_

_Yes._

Something glinted silver in what little light was in the cab, and, alarmingly, Jim’s first thought was not ‘weapon’, but ‘Mark’. Indeed, Sherlock’s Marked hand was between them on the seat, gleaming magnetically at the criminal. Jim’s left was closer, but…some base instinct was telling him to use his opposite.

               _Touch. Mark to Mark._

               Sherlock was curious about the idea, too. He held out his palm, glistening with permanent silver, to make it easier to reach. Jim, heart hammering, reached across his chest with his own Marked hand and, after letting it hover above Sherlock’s for a moment, touched their palms together.

               The effect was, simply put, euphoric.

               _Sher-_

_OH…_

It felt like every single cell of Jim’s body was humming with pleasure. The air was crushed from his lungs and he was dizzy and he felt a rush of blood go to his lower area and by God, everything was _Sherlock._

A startled gasp escaped the detective’s lips, serving as an unpleasant reminder that they were in fact still on public property, and Jim bit his own in an attempt to keep quiet. Once he was sure that the moan frozen in his throat was successfully stifled, Jim broke the contact roughly. Sherlock also was starting to get past the point of decency and the criminal didn’t fully trust in himself to carry any inhibitions at all if things developed further before they got home.

               Not home. To 221B.

               _We, ah…_ Sherlock was still dazed.

               _We shouldn’t do that again before we get there._

_Good idea._

Jim licked his lips, _But once we are..._

Sherlock turned a piercing gaze to his Soulmate and nodded fervently.

               There seemed to be an unspoken question that neither was willing to fully articulate even in their thoughts, but that hovered between them, thickening the air. If that was a handshake, how was either of them supposed to last long enough to do anything else?

               _Is that an obligation?_ Sherlock wondered.

 _We’re here,_ Jim avoided the question. There was no obligation, not by a long shot, but the truth was both of them wanted to spend the whole night together. Things would probably be more stimulating if they continued each leg of the race as long as possible.

               But then again, maybe sex with a Bond was different. There had to be a reason ordinary people wanted one so badly.

They paid their fare and were out rather quickly. Jim hugged himself against the cold air, and Sherlock debated whether or not he should do something about that.

               _No. It’s good to get air,_ the criminal inhaled deeply, _in case Mrs. Hudson decides to say hello._

And because a part of him was screaming that he needed to clear his head. There was something off here…something was wrong. Or was there?

               When he looked at Sherlock, all porcelain skin and cupid’s bow lips, the worry disappeared.

_She won’t. It’s late._

_She strikes me as nosy,_ Jim worried.

Sherlock blinked, “How would _you_ know?” he asked indignantly.

               The criminal shook his head, “Let’s get inside.” _Sex with Sherlock. Sex with Sherlock. Sex with **Sherlock.**_

               Despite both of their excitement, there was a slight edge to the consultants’ thoughts now. A bit of nervousness that came with the idea that they were _really_ doing this.

               The hall was quiet when they entered it. Every creak of the stairs was evident, and it would have made Jim cringe, except for the fact that their Bond, thank _God_ , decided that keeping them aroused was more important than acknowledging awkward details. The criminal couldn’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to undo that first button on Sherlock’s shirt.

               Sherlock closed the door behind them with a little more force than necessary when they entered the darkened flat. The noise echoed with a sort of finality that was strangely comforting. Now that they were here, it seemed a bit easier to imagine roaming hands and lips; clothes coming off and seeing one another completely exposed.

The detective’s chest rose and fell laboriously as he turned to Jim, eyes glittering.

               _So…_

_So._

Sherlock was the one to make the first move. The detective took the criminal into his arms with calculated precision and pressed their lips together again, instantly earning him a low moan from Jim. The criminal instinctively tilted his head back, finally succumbing to what had been nagging at him for what felt like forever.

               Jim had just started to lace his fingers in the detective’s hair when he pulled away, remembering something.

               Sherlock watched him hungrily as he took off the glasses that had served as a disguise for the night so far, folded them with fingers trembling with adrenaline, and tossed them onto a nearby table. John wouldn’t notice. Probably.

               Jim all but melted into the detective’s arms when their lips met again with kisses clumsy and fast. Their breaths were already heavy, and Sherlock’s smelled of scotch from earlier as it ghosted across Jim’s skin. The criminal had one hand in the detective’s curls, but his other, Marked hand fumbled blindly for a moment before he decided to ask.

               _Your hand._

Sherlock didn’t seem to notice Jim had said anything.

               _Sherlock. Hands?_

_Right. Yes._

Jim’s knees nearly gave out from under him when their Marked hands met again, almost breaking the kiss. Sherlock caught him, albeit barely, and they still stumbled backwards a bit until collapsing on the couch together, the detective straddling his partner.

               _That was fast,_ Jim marveled, anything but complaining. He wondered, as their Marked hands twisted together, sending pleasure signals to every nerve in his body, if this was what being high felt like.

Sherlock answered by crashing their lips together again.

               _Jesus, Sherlock._

_Do you want me to-?_

_To what?_

_I don’t know,_ the detective was having trouble processing anything besides pressing their hands and lips together more, _Stop? Slow down?_

 _Um,_ Jim couldn’t really think properly, either, _No._

Sherlock twisted his hand in the criminal’s, and Jim didn’t stifle a moan this time. The detective broke their kiss, not only aroused but quite _energized_ by this new form of interaction. He studied Jim, pupils dilated but still collecting data.

               He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came out.

               _Have you done this before?_ The detective asked, brow furrowed.

               _Please kiss me again,_ Jim tried to pull Sherlock down again, fingers fumbling at his hips, but he stayed upright, despite obvious pleasure at being touched by the criminal so near to more forbidden areas.

               _I will. But if you know what you’re doing-_

 _Sherlock, just kiss me. By God, please_ , Jim was past the point of pride.

               _I’ve done it three times. All experiments. Don’t remember most of it. I deleted a lot,_ Sherlock said matter of factly.

               _This is an experiment, remember? Who cares who cares who **fucking**_ _cares? Please just kiss me more._

               Sherlock, apparently now more interested in Jim’s neck than an answer, decided to start kissing there.

               “Mm,” Jim hummed, “Mine were like yours—be careful, Sherlock!”

               The detective made a mental note to be gentler with teeth from now on.

               “They were like yours,” the criminal continued in a rush, “Obligatory things. I think there were…oh, _God_ , I don’t remember. Two or three. But I was so bored I didn’t, _oh…_ I don’t really feel like I’ve-”

               Sherlock broke away from Jim’s neck with a wet noise, “Good,” he panted, genuinely pleased by this new information, “We’re,” he pressed their lips together into a slow, hard kiss, and after a few seconds continued, “In the same,” he repeated the motion, “boat.” His lips quirked into a quick, smug smile, eyes sparkling down at Jim.

               _I can’t believe you._

_Quick learner._

_Jesus, Sherlock._

_Mhm._

The detective pressed their lips together once more, slow and deliberate again. He drew the motion out as long as possible, and in the process started to try inching his tongue towards where their mouths met. Jim was the first to try to adjust, allowing Sherlock in.

               It was frustrating, they decided, to have their right hands Marked. Because while it was ecstasy having them together, this also formed an unfortunate barrier between their bodies.

               _Unless your arm was above your head._

_That’s not going to be comfortable. Do that with your tongue again…Christ, yes, that._

_We could move…_ Sherlock thought of his bedroom.

               _True._

The detective broke the contact between their palms to tangle his hands in the criminal’s hair, and Jim was surprised that he was almost exactly as aroused as before. Maybe the intensity of Mark to Mark contact wore off over time?

               Sherlock ground his hips against the criminal’s, and decided this was an important move to remember; it seemed to be almost as pleasurable as touching palms. Jim groaned quietly under his lover, starting to be very uncomfortable in his clothing.

               _Lie down,_ the detective ordered.

The criminal decided there was reason for trying to order their thoughts at this point. He let Sherlock push him so that he was on his back. The detective’s hands weighed on his chest, and Sherlock’s curls dangled around his face as he looked down upon Jim.

               Jim took in his Soulmate’s appearance for a moment, pupils dilated, panting, slightly perspiring. It was a pretty sight.

               The detective deftly undid the first button on Jim’s shirt. The criminal rested a hand on his arm, so that he could feel the muscles flex as he did so.

               Sherlock wanted, more than anything, to rip Jim’s shirt apart instead.

               _NO._

_Fine._

There was a moment, after the criminal’s shirt was unbuttoned, that Sherlock paused, unsure of what to do next. He moved off of Jim slightly, so that he could sit up.

               Jim started to shrug his shirt off, but Sherlock stopped him.

               The detective licked his lips, fixated on Jim’s collarbone, “We should probably…”

               The criminal blinked, then nodded, “You’re right.”

               Sherlock awkwardly backed off of Jim, and pulled the criminal back up into a sitting position, Mark to Mark again. Jim discarded his earlier theory of intensity wearing off; he and Sherlock were both weak in the knees from pleasure when they stood up.

               Jim let the detective all but drag him to their new destination. They made it almost past the bathroom door when Sherlock pinned him against the wall, pressing their lips together again.

               _Now._

The criminal moaned into Sherlock’s lips. They _could_ do it here…

               _Oh, God, we can’t, though,_ the detective’s hands brushed against Jim’s collarbone as he moved the criminal’s shirt out of the way.

               _Here._

               Jim suddenly spun them around, reversing their positions and slamming Sherlock against the wall back first.

               _I said, no,_ the criminal would be lying if he cared so much about the intentions of the statement as the way Sherlock looked at him afterwards. The detective’s eyes were sparkling dangerously at him, helping Jim to forget what he was originally going to do and urging his lips to Sherlock’s neck.

               _Something about this. Something…right! Not having sex here._

The detective took that as his cue to flip their positions again, this time pinning both of Jim’s arms on either side of his head. He eagerly pressed their lips together again, and the criminal kissed him back until he found the opportunity he was looking for. The bite he delivered to Sherlock’s lips was by no means enough to draw blood, but hurt enough that the detective slowed his movements a bit, and, after a moment, loosened his grip on Jim’s arms. 

               _Thank you,_ the criminal thought cheekily, seizing the opportunity to shove Sherlock backwards through his bedroom door, shutting it behind them with a resounding click. They were surrounded in inky blackness now, save for a few soft rays of moonlight coming in through a window. Jim let Sherlock gently push him down onto the bed with a creak; the first sign of hesitance he’d seen for a while.

               The rest all happened in a haze. The criminal didn’t even know his _name_ at this point, only that he needed to be closer to the other man in the room; the man he shared a Bond with. Sherlock was breathing hard against him, the fabric of his shirt soft against Jim’s exposed chest, and the criminal was willing, at this point, to let the detective do anything he wanted to him.

               It was hard to distinguish individual happenings from one another. Jim remembered clothing taking a long time. His unbuttoned shirt was the first to come off, then Sherlock’s. They threw them aimlessly, hastily across the room after getting them off.

               Sherlock frowned. Well, it was too dark to see, but it wasn’t a hard deduction to make, based on his thoughts.

               Shoes and socks were interesting. They were so impatient by the end of this endeavor that trousers and pants didn’t hold even a tinge of awkwardness. In fact, nothing seemed to. Because as bare skin finally brushed against skin, as hands finally had unrestricted access to the body they had desired for so long, inhibitions were locked up, forgotten, and pushed somewhere far, far away. Worries were for a time when Sherlock’s breath wasn’t hot against Jim’s skin, when his hands weren’t drifting across the criminal’s chest.

               Sherlock’s muscles were lean, though it wasn’t difficult for him to keep the criminal pinned in place. Not that Jim would have wanted to move. He was content where he was, counting the detective’s ribs and kissing every inch of skin he could reach.

               _Sherlock…_

Jim didn’t receive an answer. He did, however, receive a few small bites to his arm, less painful than before. The criminal ground his hips up into Sherlock’s, earning a moan from the detective.

               Their kisses grew more desperate, almost frenzied as the minutes went on. Sherlock pinned Jim’s arm above his head, so that their Marked palms could be in contact without getting between them. Pulses spiked and hair was pulled until finally the detective couldn’t take it any longer. He trailed his lips down, down, down Jim’s body, and while the _vast_ majority of the criminal was willing to simply lie there and moan for Sherlock, there was a tiny part of him that, despite having been ignored most of the night, still had enough voice to ask the necessary question.

               _Condom?_

_Oh, fuck it._

Unfortunately, that was all Jim needed to hear. Sherlock hesitated for no more than half a second before taking the criminal into his mouth.

               After that, they were nothing more than a moaning mess in the dark.

(o0o0o0o0)

               John sighed, watching his breath turn to fog in the frigid night air. He’d left the restaurant after two hours of waiting. It was clear at that point that she wasn’t coming.

               He should have known that this would happen. Or, rather, that it could happen. It never had really occurred to him that the same rules applied to Mary as every other woman. Maybe because it had been such a coincidence to run into her a second time. He’d been so devastated when she’d gotten away the first time…admittedly unreasonably so. Seeing her a second time had still felt like a second chance at something good, however. Obviously they weren’t Soulmates, but John didn’t really care about that. Not really. He just wanted a _decent_ relationship, dammit! Not something from a movie or anything…just the type of thing you’d hear about and think ‘That’s real love. That’s reality, and it isn’t so bad.’

               He was starting to think that even that didn’t exist. Look at Sherlock. Bonding was supposed to be the most magical thing that could happen to a person, and it had thoroughly ruined the detective’s life. Sherlock Holmes, who had operated _so far_ outside of what everyone else considered normal, who had dared to defy what everyone else wanted…had ended up becoming just that. He _had_ what was normal now, and it was so twisted, applied to him. It just went to show, John thought, what happened when you tried to force someone into a box. Now Sherlock and Moriarty were trapped together with no way out, and the majority of people would still be _jealous_ of them. The more he thought on it, the more John wondered how many other people had been trapped into a Bond that they didn’t want.

               Well…at least if romance had failed him again, John had Sherlock to come home to. He’d seemed a little mellower before the doctor had left. Maybe John would walk in and he’d be doing an experiment, like old times.

               221B was finally in sight. It had been a long walk, but John almost was grateful for the cold. It helped to clear his head. Mary didn’t matter. He’d forget about her in no time. Maybe he’d write a rant on his blog. Or something vague and poetic like everyone else did when a relationship didn’t work out in their favor.

               He’d figure it out. What was important was that she wasn’t. Just another fish in the sea. Who he’d happened to see twice. And _clearly_ , given how much weight she’d lost in the amount of time between meetings, had some other issues going on.

               John took his phone out of pocket and trudged up the stairs to the flat. He’d delete her number, and that would be it.

               To the doctor’s surprise, the flat was completely dark when he entered, closing the door behind him. He flicked a light on, almost tripping over a stray book on the floor.

               Had Sherlock gone out? A quick glance at the clock told him it was five minutes past ten. Not good. _Oh_ , not good. What would Sherlock be trying to do at ten o clock at night, in the dead of winter?

               Knowing Sherlock, it could be anything.

               Cursing to himself, John started towards the kitchen. He needed tea. He needed to sit down and think about this. Sherlock could take care of himself. He pulled things like this all the time. But then again, what if Moriarty had done something, and Sherlock was in trouble? Things weren’t _completely_ different, but they certainly weren’t the same, either.

               _Wait…_

               John glanced down the hall towards Sherlock’s door. Shut, and no light from under the frame.

               The doctor almost laughed in relief, but settled for a shaky sigh.

               Look at him! Worrying about Sherlock when, in reality, he’d just _gone to bed early._ Actually, what had probably happened was Moriarty had fallen asleep, wherever he was, and Sherlock was drowsier than usual because of it. That did tend to happen in strong Bonds when one partner was sleeping. That would explain the mellowness from earlier, too. Nothing to stress over.

               Spirits slightly lifted, John took out his phone, and was surprised to see he had a text from Greg.

               **Mate, there’s something you should know. GL**

John frowned, suddenly worried that his ‘Sherlock is sleeping’ deduction was incorrect after all.

               **What? Is everything ok? JW**

There was a slight delay.

               **Are you at home right now? GL**

**Yeah, why? JW**

This time, the delay wasn’t so slight.

               **Nevermind! All’s well! GL**

**Wait, what happened? JW**

Frustrated, the doctor typed a second text.

               **Greg, if you’re texting me at 10, it must be important. JW**

**Trust me, it’s not. GL**

**You’re killing me! What is it? JW**

Greg didn’t respond for long enough that John had time to delete Mary’s number first. The text came after about five minutes.

               **Do you know where Sherlock is? GL**

John blinked.

               **Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s sleeping. I could go check, though. Not like him to be in bed this early… JW**

**NO GL**

**Sorry, just GL**

**He and Mycroft had a fight while you were gone. GL**

**It’s a long story. GL**

John resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the texts rapidly appearing on his screen.

               **Go get some sleep. Sorry to bother you. GL**

**No problem! I’m just thankful Sherlock’s getting extra rest. God knows he needs it. JW**

Another slight delay.

               **Me too. GL**

John shook his head and turned his phone off. Sherlock and Moriarty had a strong enough Bond that they likely would share dreams, too. For his friend’s sake, John prayed that the criminal wasn’t much of a dreamer. Sherlock didn’t deserve that. No one did.

               So absorbed was he in pity, for himself, Sherlock, and life in general, that when John went up to bed, he didn’t notice a pair of prescriptionless glasses sitting on the living room table.

(o0o0o0o0)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jim and Sherlock setting a bad example for today’s youth, tsk tsk. Meanwhile poor John is completely clueless to…well, just about everything. Goddammit Watson, get your act together! I hope you guys enjoyed this, because this is as pretty as the story is gonna look for a while. This chapter was a little shorter, but I’m trying my best and felt this was the best place to cut it off. Plus, smut! Anyway, reviews are very welcome. See you next time.


	20. Earth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel as though I should apologize in advance.

               Sherlock awoke with a foul taste in his mouth. It was unfamiliar, but yet something he felt he should be able to recognize.

               He was oddly cozy; almost uncomfortably warm. The detective sighed deeply, rolling over in an attempt to hopefully find a new resting place that wasn’t warm from his body heat.

               Or rather, attempting to roll over. Evidently someone was on top of him. Suddenly _wide_ awake, Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as his pulse jumped straight from a leisurely sleeping pace to one spurred by adrenaline.

               Alright. Someone was in bed with him. Someone male, judging from the hardness pressing against his thigh. So they were both naked then, too. This was already looking worse.

               The detective wracked his brain for something, anything, that would provide an explanation. Where had he been last night? He’d been…he’d gone for drinks with Moriarty. To end it.

               He almost didn’t dare to look.

               Sherlock took a minute to sink back into his pillows, matching his breaths with his bedmate’s. He wiggled his fingers to find that while his right hand was entwined with another, somehow twisted behind his head, his left was free, resting on bare skin.

               _Oh, God._

The thought of all this… _warmth_ belonging to Jim Moriarty was too much. Sherlock cracked an eye open and inclined his head, stretching the muscles of his arm behind it uncomfortably.

               A part of him had almost expected to see Moriarty in a full Westwood suit, hair slicked back and eyes glinting. What he found was dark hair sticking out in all directions, bare skin and a face that even in sleep was twisted into a scowl, turned towards the door.

               It was possible, even from such an extreme angle, to recognize Jim’s perfectly trimmed eyebrows.

               Sherlock fought the urge to gag.

               Why why _why **why** _ wasJim Moriarty naked and on top of him?

               The detective scrambled to remember the night previous. God, what had they done? He’d written John a note—no, he’d started, and then stopped. He’d met Jim, who’d been wearing glasses. They’d both ordered scotch.

               Jim’s side of the Bond turned slightly restless, and a panicked Sherlock tried to calm his thoughts.

               They’d ordered scotch, but…Sherlock hadn’t drank that much! He _knew_ for a _fact_ that he hadn’t been drunk. His head would be hurting now, if he’d gotten drunk. So _why_ was he _naked_ and in _bed_ with _Jim Moriarty?_

               Suddenly, a memory pushed itself to the front of Sherlock’s conscious. The smell of aftershave, the scratch of an unshaven cheek, the softness of lips on lips.

               Oh _God._

               As much as Sherlock was _mortified_ by this new discovery, recollections of the previous night started rushing back to him in a wave of arousal and _skin_ , so much skin. He remembered kissing Moriarty and the wetness of the criminal’s tongue on his. He remembered hips on hips and Marks on Marks and undoing buttons. But the memory that disturbed him the _most_ was that buzzing in his head, in his veins that made him feel warm and _strange_.

               Sherlock remembered the way Moriarty’s eyes had sparkled at him. How his hair had felt between his fingers. He remembered a door shutting behind them and teeth and kissing in the dark.

               And _one other, very distinct thing._

The taste in the detective’s mouth seemed to suddenly increase in intensity tenfold.

               Oh _God._

Sherlock gagged again, just barely managing not to vomit on himself. He felt very exposed. Jim had slept in the middle of open legs and had probably seen every inch of the detective and was now able to use literally anything against him. And it wasn’t that he _would_ ; such a thing wasn’t a logical move. It was basic. But the fact of the matter was that this was a level of exposure for Sherlock that seemed to destroy some sort of a _base._ Something that had always been expected to be there, and taken for granted. Now he felt like _everything_ was off center, since decency wasn’t even a factor.

               Their clothes were scattered around the room. Shoes and socks and trousers and _pants._

               Moriarty’s were black.

               This time, the detective couldn’t suppress the vomit that rose in his throat. He not so much shoved as _threw_ the criminal off of him, not bothering to grab something to cover himself with before running to the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before the first heave. The thought of what he was throwing up made it even harder to stop.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim woke up falling. Full consciousness hit him so quickly that it hurt his head, almost as much as it would have hurt had he not thrown an arm out at the last second to catch himself on a side table, preventing his skull from smashing against it as he fell to the floor in a tangle of blankets.

               There were many issues the criminal would have liked to address just then. The first one happened to be _why the hell_ he was _naked_ and in an unfamiliar bedroom with clothing scattered across the floor. Why did it sound like someone was vomiting in the other room?

               Jim’s pulse instantly sped up. How could this have happened? He never did things like this! This whole situation screamed alcohol, and he was always so careful to avoid inebriation…where was he? He’d gone to die with Sherlock and then—

               _Oh._

Suddenly, the incoherent babbling coming from the detective’s side of the Bond seemed to make a _lot_ more sense.

               But…the rest still didn’t! He’d only had _one drink_. Jim was no lightweight—and he knew his limits, regardless! Why had he suddenly abandoned the plan? He’d _kissed_ Sherlock _in public_ and had gone home with him and…

               Icy fear started to spread through Jim’s veins. No. No no no. None of that could have happened. This _couldn’t_ have happened because if it had that made him vulnerable and that meant—

               The criminal sprang into action, violently untangling himself from blankets and not allowing himself so much as a shiver when cold air hit his bare skin. Sherlock seemed to have emptied the entire contents of his stomach, though Jim could still hear every cringe worthy dry heave as he scrambled to collect his clothing and cover himself. _He_ was actually feeling a little bit nauseous, thanks to Sherlock.

               What kind of twisted _play_ was this?

               Fury heated Jim’s chest, feeding off of his fear. Barefoot in only trousers and an unbuttoned dress shirt, he marched out of what he assumed was Sherlock’s bedroom to find the detective.

               Sherlock was a skeletal creature, as white as the seat of the toilet he leaned against. He’d haphazardly wrapped a towel around his lower half, but other than that, he was completely bare skinned. His curls were a tousled mop of hair and sweat on top of his head, and his chest rose and fell in labored gasps as he attempted to catch his breath after his vomiting spell.

               “Do you want to tell me,” Jim’s voice shook with hatred, “What the _fuck_ you’re trying to pull?”

               The detective raised his head slowly, grating on the criminal’s nerves even further, “ _I’m_ not pulling anything.”

               “Shut the fuck up!” Jim, completely livid, hauled Sherlock off the toilet and slammed him against the opposite wall, “You think I’m your little _faggot_ , Sherlock Holmes? You think you can fuck me and make me _weak_?”

               “Oh, let me guess,” Sherlock spat back, towel slipping dangerously low, “There _wasn’t_ anything in the drinks, then? I just _happened_ to be eager to take you home? Change of heart?”

               “What the _hell_ is going on?” John’s footsteps thundered down from his bedroom, and all the blood drained from his face when he appeared in the bathroom doorway, “Moriarty.”

               Jim gave the detective another shove against the wall, “We were supposed to _die_ , you fucking snake! That was the deal,” he stumbled back, almost ready to cry, “That was the _game_. You’ve gone and done it; you’ve _ruined_ the game!”

               “Why is he in our flat?”

               “I stopped giving a damn about the game when you initiated that damned handshake!” Sherlock hollered back, towel falling completely down. John averted his eyes.

               “O-kay, nope. Sherlock, can you maybe, ah…”

               “ _Don’t you dare_ ,” Jim snarled, “turn this on me! If I’d have known you were ordinary, I wouldn’t have bothered in the first place! You weren’t _like_ them, Sherlock,” to his horror, the criminal’s voice cracked and he had to stuff a fist in his mouth to steady himself.

               “What is happening?” John tried again.

               Sherlock, looking quite terrifying, snatched up his towel, “I thought you were a better class of criminal,” he growled.

               “OKAY! HEY! DOES ANYONE SEE ME HERE?” John’s voice finally cut through the consultants tirade, and he found two equally frightening pairs of eyes were trained on him.

               “Listen to me,” Jim turned back to Sherlock, squaring his shoulders and allowing his voice to quiet to a dangerously low volume, “If you ever tell another person about what happened here tonight,” his words were barely a whisper, “I will not stop until I bury everyone you care about _alive_ , is that clear?”

               “Back away from him, Moriarty,” John ordered, “I have a gun in the other room and I’m not afraid to use it.”

               “Funny,” Jim’s breaths came quick and shallow, and he felt very lightheaded, “Because I have a razor,” he snatched one from the countertop, pressing it to Sherlock’s neck as the detective grabbed his wrist, “And your little angel, right here.”

               _I can’t believe I sucked you off._

_SHUT THE FUCK UP!_

“Leave,” Sherlock’s voice was cold and smooth, “And don’t come back. The game is over.”

               “IT WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BE OVER UNTIL WE WERE DEAD!” Jim fought the detective’s grip on his wrist, inching the razor towards his throat, “Look what you’ve done…look what you’ve done…” the criminal felt like he was crying; there was a lump in his throat that his voice couldn’t seem to make it past, but his eyes were dry.

               From the sidelines, John took a long, shuddering breath, “Moriarty, let him go.”

               “I’ve got him, John,” Sherlock soothed, despite his current position, “He won’t do anyth-”

               “Not until you move!” Jim turned to the doctor, eyes wild, “Move out of the doorframe, Watson.”

               John remained.

               “I SAID, MOVE!” Jim’s face contorted into something hideous as he shouted, and, after exchanging a quick glance with Sherlock, John complied.

               The criminal let the detective down and tossed the razor back onto the countertop, striding back into Sherlock’s room and making a point of avoiding eye contact with anyone.

               Jim tied his shoes with a ferocity that almost burned his fingers, despite the expensive laces. Sherlock marched into the bedroom to watch him, eyes filled with loathing.

               “You took advantage of me,” he spat, “Your precious virgin. Are you happy now? Was I a good shag? Got all the dirt you need to ruin me again?”

               “Leave me alone,” Jim picked up a shoe, examined it for a moment, and then threw it at Sherlock with a grunt before continuing the search for his left.

               “You know, it all makes _sense_ now, what I was reading about Bonds with psychopaths,” the detective continued, “I never _really_ felt anything from you, did I? It was all a play to get me to expose my own vulnerabilities to you.”

               “Just leave me alone,” Jim was feeling incredibly sick. Memories seemed to be extending themselves all around him. He could almost taste iron as he finally tied his other shoe. Ugly words echoed in his mind.

               “Don’t play the pity card,” Sherlock sneered cruelly, reading his thoughts, “That’s a cheap move in a game that, until today, I’d thought was supposed to be above that sort of thing.”

               Jim was buttoning up his shirt with shaking fingers.

               “But the flaw in that argument is one you agreed with, yourself,” the detective went on, “You are me, remember? And I’m a _high functioning sociopath.”_

               _I’m not you._

_True. There are some differences between sociopathy and psychopathy. One might argue you’re the one who needs to be locked up._

               _Leave me alone._

Jim started to leave, making sure to bump into John as hard as he could in the hallway.

               “Stop pretending like this hurts you,” Sherlock had started to follow Jim, despite the hand John put on his shoulder, but the criminal had had enough. He spun around, absolutely livid.

               “JUST LEAVE ME ALONE, ALRIGHT? DON’T YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU DON’T LEAVE ME ALONE?” Jim’s throat was starting to hurt, and he wondered if it was only from shouting. The thought made him shiver. He didn’t break eye contact with Sherlock as he took a few steps backwards, stumbling slightly, to grab the glasses from his disguise off the living room table.

               “What?” Sherlock’s voice was back to normal, “You’ll ‘burn’ me?”

               Jim didn’t know what he would do, truthfully. All he knew was that he wanted to be alone and far, far away from Sherlock.  He wasn’t even able to come up with an answer for the detective save for a tiny, weak shake of the head before fleeing out the door.

               _Control, control, control._

(o0o0o0o0)

               The flat was eerily silent after Jim left. Sherlock’s throat was still burning from his own vomit, and he swallowed painfully, still fighting the urge to gag. He wrapped his towel a little tighter around himself, suddenly feeling very exposed.

               “…Sherlock?” John was the first to speak, tentatively turning to his friend, “What was that?”

               Sherlock looked at the floor. His mouth was open, but he was unable to form words.

               “An encounter,” he finally said.

               “An encount-? Sherlock,” John’s voice was already losing some of its gentleness, “that was Moriarty, half naked _in our flat--_ ” he stopped himself, shaking his head, “No, Sherlock, sit down.”

               The detective rolled his eyes, “I’m not going to-”

               “First of all, are you alright?” John interrupted, searching Sherlock’s body, probably for bite marks or signs of a struggle. The question was a curious one.

               No, Sherlock decided, he was not ‘alright’. Though that wasn’t what he said.

               He huffed impatiently, “I can handle myself,” he started to walk away, but John grabbed him and steered him towards the sofa, reminding the detective of the night previous.

               “Uh, no,” the doctor declared, “No, you are going to tell me what happened, because I am freaking out right now, alright Sherlock?”

               Sherlock found it funny that John felt _he_ was the one ‘freaking out’ currently, but he regardless decided to comply. He swallowed, wincing for multiple reasons. _Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it._

               John watched him, “You two didn’t…?”

               “Of course we bloody did,” Sherlock snapped, cutting him off. The doctor’s face contorted.

               “We need to get you to a hospital,” he said calmly, “I’m assuming he didn’t use protection?”

               A sigh rattled through the detective, “No.”

               John was staring at him with so much pity that Sherlock had to fight the urge to gag again.

               “Why didn’t you scream?” he breathed, “Jesus, Sherlock, I thought you’d gone to bed early. I would have-”

               “Scream?” Sherlock cut his friend off, starting to realize they were discussing completely different things. He squinted at John, “This wasn’t a rape.”

               John raised his eyebrows, “Then what…?”

               “We went out for drinks and…got caught up in things, I suppose.”

               The doctor’s jaw dropped open, “You went out for _drinks_? Why the hell would you do that? Don’t you know how-?”

               “Yes,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I know it was dangerous,” he thought of the crumpled suicide notes in the bin; he’d have to get rid of those soon, “I only had half a scotch, though, so I wasn’t drunk. I don’t know why-”

               “No, Sherlock!” John’s voice was quickly rising, “I mean, obviously it was dangerous because of Moriarty, but don’t you know what happens when you drink alcohol after forming a Bond?”

               The detective blinked. This sounded like something he _should_ have known. Moreover, it sounded like an oncoming lecture.

               “ _Oh my God, Sherlock!_ ” John was incredulous, “You _don’t_ mix alcohol and a new Bond! Ever! It lets that part of your brain take priority over all of your inhibitions! See this… _this_ is why I hate those damn pamphlets they give out. No one reads them!”

               Sherlock frowned, “But it wasn’t a new Bond! It’s been weeks!”

               “You have to wait at _least_ a month, Sherlock,” John put a palm to his face, “At least a month, and that’s with a weak Bond. And something tells me Moriarty knew this.”

               “Something tells me,” the detective grumbled, “He didn’t.”

               “Oh, and how do you know that?”

               “Because I can read his thoughts!” Sherlock was starting to get frustrated, “I knew what we both were thinking going into that pub.”

               “And what was that?”

               The detective shook his head, starting to get up, “It doesn’t matter now.”

               “Sherlock, it _does_ matter! This is assault!”

               “I wanted it!”

               John’s face fell.

               “I wanted it,” Sherlock went on, hating himself, “I was the one who initiated the kiss, I was the one who brought him here, and I was the one who started taking…” he gestured vaguely, “clothes off. It was my fault.”

               “You’re defending him,” John’s voice was barely a whisper, “You’re actually…whose idea was it to go without protection?”

               Sherlock looked away, “Mine.”

               “ _Christ_ , Sherlock,” John cursed, “We’re getting you checked for everything. God knows what you might have caught.”

               “You act like this is _my_ fault,” the detective’s temper sparked, “You just said that both of our inhibitions were removed.”

               John shook his head, “No, I just…please don’t think this is your fault,” he pleaded, “It’s not. But I’m calling Mycroft, because this can’t go on. We’re going to do something about that monster.”

               “I can handle myself!” Sherlock was tired of being treated like a child. Yes, this was horrible, and he felt disgusting, but it was irritating that John felt the need to call Big Brother when _he’d_ been the one to leave Sherlock alone in the first place. “And in case you haven’t noticed, he wasn’t too happy about this either.”

               “Moriarty is a _psychopath_ , Sherlock,” John leaned into his words, “He’s an actor. And now that he’s been this close to you, it’s going to be much easier for him to play you.”

               “I need a shower,” Sherlock rolled his eyes and left the doctor standing there, watching him leave. He wasn’t sure how much of what John had proposed had been true, but he knew that it was impossible to fake what the detective had seen of Moriarty that morning. It would have been a different story if his thoughts had been guarded, but Jim’s panic had been as clear and cutting to the criminal as it had been shown to Sherlock.

               The detective wasn’t sure what John thought he was feeling, but he was almost certain it wasn’t accurate. The doctor wasn’t the one who felt Moriarty struggling to get enough air in, panicking for reasons that still appeared to Sherlock in flashes of red and ghosts of pain.

               Sherlock almost felt sorry for the criminal, though he still was unsure how he really felt about this situation besides shaken. All he knew was that he wanted to get the taste of semen out of his mouth and the smell of Jim _off_ of him.

(o0o0o0o0)

               All Sebastian had wanted was an avocado.

               Not that he usually bought them, but after a week of trying to figure out how the hell he was going to work his way back into Moriarty’s good graces, on a diet of mostly ramen, he was ready for some real food. Something that didn’t contain three days’ worth of sodium in a single serving, preferably. He didn’t know _why_ he’d chosen avocados, but it had happened.

               Well, part of him knew why. Before he’d run away from home, his sister and mom had been on a health kick. They’d been eating avocados like Sebastian used to eat popcorn. The sniper wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to look at the food without being reminded of sunnier days and greener pastures. His mom in the garden, trimming weeds around her roses, his dad watching football with him, and his sister painting her nails fluorescent pink to contrast with the green grass.

               To make a long story short, avocados reminded Sebastian of when life was colorful, before it had fallen under a permanent shadow that only showed black, white, and various shades of gray. And red. So much red.

               Sebastian had arrived at Tesco late; around eight o’clock. A little late to go grocery shopping, but the sniper still hadn’t expected, on any counts, to have a bag slipped over his head feet from a store that _still had its lights on_.

               He’d been dragged into an alleyway and beaten until he wasn’t sure which way was up or down, had his wrists and ankles ziptied together, and tossed into the back of a car. Not in the trunk, mind you, but in the _backseat_ , next to two people who he couldn’t see, but could assume were built large.

               This whole situation practically _screamed_ Moriarty, and Sebastian knew he was supposed to be happy…excited, even. This was his chance to get his job back, and to start his new one with Holmes. He had a thick skin; he’d been through shit worse than this. A few previous employers had put him through tests to ensure his loyalty. Moriarty had, in the beginning.

               But this wasn’t a new employer. This was Moriarty, and it was _after_ Sebastian had pissed him off. The sniper hadn’t been afraid of him a week ago, but now that he was in the dark, in a silent car, being driven who knows where by a bunch of strangers, he couldn’t help but think about the rumors he’d heard.

               Jim Moriarty. It was a name Sebastian had only _seen_ a select number of times. In old type font on a laptop he would throw away later. Scratched into the fifteenth brick from the corner in an alleyway. In beautiful calligraphy on a piece of heavy stationary.

               And sure, he apparently fucked guys, but he also apparently sold nuclear arms to Russia and managed human trafficking rings, so…yes, Sebastian was a little bit nervous.

               They drove for what the sniper supposed must have been two hours or so. When he was shoved out of the car, it was onto damp grass. He could still hear faded traffic, but it was far enough away that the wind through the trees was louder. The air was slightly moist, but still completely frigid. He could hear what sounded like several people digging.

               The sniper shivered.

               Finally, the bag was lifted off of his head, to reveal an angel.

               Well, not really. A large, stone angel, the kind used to mark graves, stood towering over him, illuminated harshly by a few portable lamps that were set on the ground around him. There were several men digging what looked like a grave underneath it.

               _Oh, hell._

“Do you believe in a higher power, Sebastian Moran?” the chilling, very familiar Irish drawl came from the sniper’s right, and he instantly turned from the grave to his other side, where none other than Jim Moriarty was standing over him.

               He almost, instinctively, answered that he was indeed born and raised a Christian. The smarter side of him decided the best answer was none at all.

               “Oh, good,” Moriarty’s voice was almost lilting, “You’re learning. Took you long enough.”

               Sebastian looked at his boss’s shoes. They were laced very tightly.

               “Look up at me,” the song was gone from the criminal’s voice, and what must have been hundreds of dollars worth of Italian leather tilted the sniper’s chin up, so that he was forced to look Moriarty in the eye.

               “Yes, Boss,” Sebastian struggled to his knees, hoping that the position wasn’t interpreted as a seductive one.

               “I-” Moriarty started, but was interrupted by the sound of a shovel hitting wood. The criminal’s gaze snapped from Sebastian to the diggers. “Open it,” he ordered them, “and then stand aside.”

               The graveyard grew very quiet.

               “Regardless of what you believe, Moran,” Moriarty took a few steps back from him, “I have my own little ghosts stationed all throughout this little corner of Hell. If you decide to run, fly, or _dig_ ,” his teeth gleamed in the low light, “away, they will shoot you until you are no longer recognizable, and you’ll be buried on top of someone else’s coffin, under someone else’s name. Is that clear?”

               Sebastian nodded, “Crystal, sir.”

               “ _Sir?_ ” Moriarty positively beamed, “Look at you, Moran. Really laying it on thick tonight, aren’t you? Maybe I need to shoot my stupid employees more often!”

               The sniper said nothing, biting back the spark of anger the word brought out in him.

               “Anyway,” Jim clapped, “To business. I am willing, because I’m _very_ generous, to offer you your job back, Moran. Do you want to know _why_?”

               There was a short pause. Sebastian was sure Moriarty could hear his heartbeat.

               “Yes, Boss.”

               “Oh, sweetheart,” Jim’s eyes were almost black in this light, “You know I know about the Ice Man, right? Your little bargain with Mycroft Holmes?”

               _Uh oh. Uh oh uh oh uh oh uh oh. Shit fucking cunt fucking shit shit shit shit._

Sebastian swallowed, “It doesn’t surprise me, Boss.”

               “Oh, _fantastic_ ,” Moriarty exclaimed, “Well, then I don’t have to give you this whole ‘faithfulness’ lecture! You are a _time saver._ But for the sake of avoiding miscommunication, I want to outline this for you,” the criminal paused, “I’d like you back, Sebastian. But the trouble here is that I don’t share well. I like pretty things, like good snipers, to myself. But Mycroft Holmes seems to be dead set on you. Don’t know why he saved your sorry life, but they say you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. I want you back, and on _my side_ , Moran. How does that sound?”

               This seemed relatively simple, “Um, great, Boss.”

               “But, _here_ ’s the issue,” Moriarty continued, eyes boring into the sniper’s skull like the bullet he had once put there, “Holmes wants information. You are going to feed him whatever I tell you to. I’d like to finally get Big Brother off my back.”

               Sebastian chanced a small nod.

               “And I assume this sounds fantastic to you,” Moriarty drawled, “But here’s the terrible, tragic thing, Moran; people say all the time that they’re loyal, when they really aren’t. You’d be familiar with that dilemma.”

               “I’m sorry, Boss.”

               “And I’m sorry that I can’t accept your apology, Sebastian,” the criminal feigned a sigh, “In my line of business, it means nothing. Which is why I need to ensure your loyalty,” he turned away from the sniper, “by way of example.”

               Sebastian heard muffled screaming and ziptied feet scrambling against grass before a petite figure was thrown on the ground next to him. A woman, he realized with a shock.

               The sniper had a very sick feeling in his stomach.

               She had a bag on her head, just like he had. It was removed roughly by one of Moriarty’s thugs to reveal short cropped blonde hair and tired grey eyes, blinking and trying to adjust to the darkness.

               “Mary Mary quite contrary,” the rhyme started light and ended in a growl, “Did you honestly _think_ you could get away?”

               The blonde stared up at Moriarty defiantly, “I just wanted a new life,” her voice was muffled around the gag in her mouth.

               “And _I_ ,” the criminal’s voice raised dangerously, “just wanted a first in command I could rely on. But we don’t always get the things we want, do we?”

               Sebastian was beginning to realize what he was going to have to do.

               “You wouldn’t have ever let me leave!” Mary shouted.

               “You should have known what you were signing up for,” Moriarty shrugged off the accusation like it was nothing, “But don’t worry; I have no more use for you, anyway, so you’ll get your wish,” he turned his gaze to the angel statue, “Mary Morstan.”

               Sebastian struggled to read the shiny engraving at the base of the marker. _Mary Morstan. R.I.P. 1926-2006._

So…this was someone else’s grave. Was Mary even this girl’s real name? The sniper doubted it.

               “Alright, Moran,” Moriarty’s face was a cruel mask as he stepped back, “I’m sure you know what I want you to do. Bury her. Should be enough room in the coffin.”

               Sebastian’s heart almost stopped. Someone cut his ankles and wrists free.

               “Should I…do I kill her first?”

               The criminal’s expression didn’t change, “No.”

               _Okay, okay it’ll be fine. I’ll go to Mycroft Holmes as soon as it’s done. We’ll get her out. Definitely. She worked for Moriarty. She’s smart._

The desperation in the blonde’s eyes as Sebastian stood up begged to differ.

               He’d killed before, but this was…this was like the bar, the night he’d gotten into that fight and ruined his Army career. This was up close and personal. The only difference was that this time, none of the experience would be muddled by alcohol.

               It wasn’t hard to resist her struggles. A part of Sebastian debated whispering his true intent to her, but the risk of being overheard and ending up buried together was too much. She’d learn once he and Holmes rescued her.

               _If you get there in time._

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian’s hands had blisters on them by the time they’d finished refilling the grave and setting down fresh mats of grass underneath the angel’s stone gaze. The sky looked like the sun would be rising in a few hours.

               “Leave us,” Moriarty ordered. There was a shuffling of feet, followed by a heavy silence. “Do you remember their faces?”

               An alarm went off in the sniper’s head, “Uh, I think so, Boss.” In reality, he could only recall about three.

               The criminal sighed, sounding surprisingly tired, “I have names and pictures. Your job this month is to kill all of them discreetly and quietly. You’ll be hearing from me.”

               Sebastian turned to face Moriarty, only to find that he was alone in the graveyard. Not even a lantern was left behind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; you’re pissed at me. But they couldn’t fall that fast, guys. I couldn’t make them. Don’t worry, it’ll happen. Just not so quickly. There’s a few things I’d like to address here, though. First, yes, the crime wasn’t Jim’s usual style. Obviously, he’s having a little bit of a breakdown right now, so his usual tendency to shy away from impulsivity has been pushed aside. Hmmm…when have we seen that in canon? Hint: think about shoes. Also, I’m sorry that most of these characters are behaving like trash cans. They’ll clean up their act eventually, I promise. Lastly, I’m sorry to say this, but the next update is going to take a little bit longer. Please bear with me as I brave the hell that is finals week. The good news is, after that, updates should come much quicker due to my lighter coarseload! Reviews always make my day, and will help me through finals week.


	21. Azimuth

               _Come on. Pick up the phone pick up the phone pick up the goddamn phone._

It had been twenty minutes already since Sebastian had left the graveyard, trying to cover a mile with every stride he made. He had to distance himself. Distance himself in case Moriarty’s ‘ghosts’ were still watching. Then again, if they were, he’d be screwed anyway when they saw Mycroft’s goons coming to rescue Mary. _If_ they rescued Mary.

               _Fuck_ , he felt so guilty. He couldn’t imagine how afraid she must have been, but from what he’d seen in her eyes, he knew it wasn’t the kind of fear someone forgot.

               Sebastian shivered and dialed Mycroft a third time. Mercifully, there was finally an answer.

               _“Moran, this had better be important.”_

The sniper frowned, “Why? Are you busy? It’s five in the morning!”

               _“It is precisely 5:55 am, therefore when rounded up it is approximately six o’clock am. Aren’t maths a joy?”_

Sebastian wasn’t appreciating the jab at his intelligence, but he shook it off, “Look,” he lowered his voice, “I don’t have time to chat. Moriarty did something and I need to know you’ll be able to help right away.”

               Mycroft sounded like he was stifling a sigh, _“Moran, I am a very busy man-”_

“So am I! This is important!”

               Something in the urgency of Sebastian’s voice must have convinced Holmes, because, after a pause, he yielded.

_“Fine. What is it? I hope you know Moriarty could very well be listening to this.”_

“It doesn’t matter!” Sebastian cried, “There’s no time! He buried a girl alive as part of a sort of initiation for me and she’s down there right now! In someone else’s coffin!”

               An infuriating silence followed.

               “ _Well?_ ” Sebastian prompted.

               _“Is that it?”_

               The sniper couldn’t believe what he was hearing. What kind of soulless monster heard a story like this and respond with anything _other_ than alarm?

               Maybe Holmes hadn’t heard him correctly.

               “Did I mention she was buried _alive_?”

               _“Moran, once again, I am a busy man. The life of one person who will probably be dead by the time we can reach her anyway matters nothing to me. Kindly take a moment to reflect on the severity of your emergency the next time you think of dialing my number.”_

With a horrifying, final click, the bastard hung up.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Now,” Mycroft turned back to face Sherlock and John again, “Where were we?”

               “Who was that?” John nodded at the phone in the elder Holmes’s hand, and Mycroft took a moment to consider his answer.

               “A friend.”

               “To you, or to us?”

               Mycroft chuckled humorlessly, “Who says not both, doctor Watson? You and he share a great deal in common. I’m sure you’d get along swimmingly.”

               “So do Sherlock and Moriarty, and yet here we are.”

               Any mask of friendliness Mycroft may have been feigning was wiped away in the blink of an eye, to be replaced by a scowl.

               “Here we are,” Mycroft repeated darkly, “Tell me again, what was the last thing he said?”

               Sherlock, who was lying on the couch behind where John stood, was trying very hard to be absorbed out of existence and into the fabric. Mycroft was like a mosquito. If he managed to sniff you out, there would never be an end to his buzzing around in your business, no matter how many times you slapped at him. Sherlock knew that from experience. The detective sighed loudly.

               “Tell me again, _why_ did you have to make this little visit at five am?” Sherlock didn’t even need to open his eyes to see Mycroft’s glare.

               “It is _six_ am, brother mine, and you were both awake, anyway. This was the only convenient opening in my schedule.”

               Sherlock raised his eyebrows, “Hm. Good to know I’m top priority.”

               “Sherlock, for God’s sake,” John scolded him tiredly, “We’re trying to help. What was the last thing Moriarty said? Something like ‘don’t you know what happens if-?’”

               “‘-if you don’t leave me alone,” Sherlock finished, remembering the way Jim’s face had contorted as he’d screamed. Since last night, the criminal’s end of the Bond had been strangely numb. It was almost alarming, the lack of feeling.

               Mycroft’s chin tilted up, “And he was distressed?” It wasn’t really phrased as a question.

               “Yeah,” John nodded affirmatively, “Though it could have been acting. I don’t know.”

               “He wasn’t acting!” Sherlock snapped for what felt like the thousandth time, “I’d have known. No one can fake a breakdown straight down to their core. I could feel the whole thing.”

               “He’s a very good actor, Sherlock,” John said quietly, making Sherlock grit his teeth. Why wouldn’t they _listen_ to him?

               “Mm,” Mycroft hummed, “What did the hospital say?”

               Sherlock groaned obscenely loudly, and a short silence followed that likely consisted of an eye roll shared between the other two men in the room. He didn’t need to open his eyes to _deduce_ that much.

               “Nothing,” John finally spoke, “He’s caught nothing, thank God.”

               It felt like Sherlock’s blood was boiling, “If you had just _listened_ to me, we wouldn’t have had to go through that whole ordeal!”

               John scoffed, and Sherlock finally sat up in time to watch him say, “Like we’re going to trust what Jim Moriarty told you about his sexual history! Common sense, Sherlock.”

               The detective huffed, lying down again.

               “I’ve developed a plan,” Mycroft announced coolly, “That will work regardless of how strong the Bond is.”

               Sherlock listened intently.

               “What?” John urged the older Holmes on.

               “Simple, really,” Mycroft explained, “As soon as we have enough information to capture Moriarty, we sedate him. Keep him alive and under a close watch, but unconscious. We ensure he is fed and all his other needs taken care of, so that Sherlock doesn’t suffer, but he is incapable of using his thoughts to manipulate.”

               “Brilliant!” John approved, “Why didn’t we think of this before?”

               “Because it’s highly illegal.” “Because I’ll be in a perpetual state of drowsiness.” Mycroft and Sherlock spoke at the same time, and the detective sat up once more to glare at his brother.

               “I won’t be able to take cases anymore. Either that, or I’ll have to start snorting expresso.”

               Mycroft smirked, “Hope you like coffee.”

               Sherlock stood up, looking from his brother to John, “Don’t I get _any_ say in this? I don’t want to be sedated like a mad dog! And listen to me when I say,” he took a challenging step towards Mycroft, “I didn’t want to be Bonded to Moriarty. But now that I am, there’s _nothing_ I can do to change it. I’d rather spend my life fighting than spend it incapacitated!”

               Mycroft’s eyes glittered with malice, “Listen to _me_ , brother mine,” he said slowly, voice barely audible, “You don’t know what’s best for you. You should thank me.”

               He started towards the door, dialing a number on his phone. Sherlock fumed, watching his brother go and fighting the urge to run after him and shove him down the stairs. Instead, he settled for hollering after him.

               “Why should I thank you for help I don’t want?”

               There was no response. John looked at him sympathetically, and Sherlock was just able to pick out a snippet of Mycroft’s conversation before he shut the door behind him.

               _“Hello, Moran. I’ve changed my mind. Tell me about her.”_

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian started talking so quickly that he forgot he was currently standing outside of the building Moriarty lived in.

               “She definitely used to work for him! I think they were close, too. Or, not close, but he trusted her, because he looked _furious_ when he saw her. Mary Morstan is the headstone, but I don’t know if it’s her real name. The graveyard is…yeah,” the sniper was surprised to hear Holmes recite a correct sounding address for the place. Maybe he had people helping him. Sebastian bit his lip, wondering how many people were actually listening in to this call.

               And if one of them was Moriarty.

               _“It will be dealt with. Stay-”_

But Sebastian had already hung up. Screw it. He wasn’t going to sit at home while someone else cleaned up his mess. He couldn’t stop thinking about how afraid that woman had looked when he’d thrown her into the dirt. He knew it would have absolutely no effect on the outcome, but Sebastian felt like if he was moving, she’d be more likely to live. Waiting patiently was not an option. The last time he’d hands on killed someone, he’d ruined his Army career and ended up homeless.

               The sniper’s walk to his car soon turned into a run.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian was surprised, upon arriving at the graveyard, to see zero police lights. Frantically, he turned in a circle, scanning for any indication of a threat or an ambush. The place looked just as empty as he’d left it.

 _Fuck_ , where was Holmes? Mycroft had the world at his fingertips and was just going to let this woman suffocate under someone else’s headstone? _And_ he was the one with the law on his side! What kind of twisted world did they live in that Sebastian, the _criminal_ , was the more moral of the two? At least, he thought he was more moral than Mycroft. Sure, he killed for a living, but there was something about those beady eyes he didn’t like…

               “It’s fascinating to watch the gears struggling to turn.”

               Sebastian jumped and spun on his heel to face the very man he’d just been belittling. Mycroft Holmes looked sharp as ever in his usual expensive looking suit, leaning on a black umbrella that dug into the grassy ground.  

               “I thought you said you’d help!”

               “ _Keep your voice down,”_ Mycroft scolded urgently, “She’s already out and on her way to the hospital. Obviously, we couldn’t make a scene, but I needed to have a word with her before we could help.”

               “Before you could-?” Sebastian couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “But she’s-! I mean, yes,” he acknowledged Holmes’s raised eyebrow, “she worked for…him. But how long did you interrogate her after you pulled her out of the ground?”

               Infuriatingly, Mycroft chuckled, “Mr. Moran, the interrogation hasn’t even _begun_ yet.”

               The sniper groaned, shaking his head, “Aren’t you supposed to be the good guy?”

               “Says the killer for hire.”

               “Well!” Sebastian couldn’t articulate what he wanted, and settled for spreading his arms in a wide gesture, “But that’s-”

               “I think,” Holmes drawled, “That I have been _considerably_ good, Mr. Moran. Not only did I rescue a long time refugee from the law and clean up _your_ mess, but I also decided to wait for you to inevitably show up here, ensuring you didn’t do anything stupid in your lack of caution. Not to mention the fact that I decided to employ you in the first place, even after you’ve already shown yourself to be one of the worst examples of loyalty I’ve ever seen in a double agent. Oh, and,” he opened his umbrella, elevating it above his head in a smooth motion, “All this before it could snow.”

               Sebastian couldn’t think of anything to do other than glare at Holmes and seethe. Apparently, mother nature was also on the side of the British government, because tiny, wet flakes of snow were just starting to fall from a gray sky.

               “I wanna see her,” the sniper demanded, never breaking eye contact. Holmes didn’t scare him.

               It seemed like Mycroft wasn’t very afraid of Sebastian, either. His facial expression didn’t change.

               “After we interrogate her. My assistant will be happy to give you a ride to the hospital.”

               Defeated, Sebastian nodded.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “This will be as easy as you decide you want it to be.”

               Despite the small room she was in, the man’s voice still seemed to echo. Maybe it was because she was still recovering from lack of oxygen.

               Mary raised her eyes to look at the suited man in front of her. He had sharp features on a round face, and an icy glare that screamed cunning. It reminded her of Moriarty, almost. The consulting criminal had been less controlled, though. It was impossible to know when you were going to get burned by the anger he’d let consume him. The man in front of her was more…icy.

               She liked it. She liked the control; the limits.

               “I want it to be easy,” she managed to say, her voice hoarse from sporadic use.

               The man sighed, sounding tired, and held his hand out to her, “Mycroft Holmes. Though I trust Mr. Moriarty gave you my name a long time ago.”

               Mary hesitantly took it, and his palm was neutral against hers—neither chilled or warm, “No,” she said honestly, “I mostly was given names of targets. Yours isn’t familiar to me.”

               Holmes raised an eyebrow, breaking the handshake, “Mostly?”

               “As his…favorite…one picks up on some things,” she fought a shudder, not at her own words, but just at the memory of the madman himself.

               Somehow, his brow raised further, prompting her on.

               “Names. I can give you a few names, along with some projects I did in the past. In exchange for protection,” she explained.

               “You were his first in command?”

               Mary frowned. She doubted anyone got close enough to Moriarty to be called by such a friendly term, but she nodded, regardless, “I suppose.”

               “What is your real name?” Holmes pushed her further.

               “Moriarty knew me as Jo. I was Jolie Montagne,” Mary found her voice grow very quiet at the end.

               Mycroft Holmes watched her coolly, “French?”

               Mary felt tears starting to well up, her eyes burning as she blinked them back, along with memories of her mother, tainted red. Her hand twitched, trying to shake the sensation of her father pulling her along, because _‘we have to keep going, you have to be strong.’_

“Only heritage. My French is très mauvais,” she purposefully botched the accent, earning her no reaction from Holmes. A new memory, this time of a blond man in a café, sprung to the forefront of her mind, however.

               Oh, God. He probably thought she’d blown off their date. It was such a silly thing for her to be upset over, given recent events, but Mary couldn’t help but feel a little bit guilty. She wished she could have at least apologized first. Given him advance warning.

               Holmes gave her a good number more questions, but eventually they ended up, inevitably, at the conclusion that she was to work for him now. In exchange for information on Moriarty, she’d be given safety, a new identity, and a place to live, at least temporarily. Mary thanked him graciously.

               In no more than an hour, they were outside the hospital, underneath softly falling snow. Mary shivered, though not from cold. If no one had rescued her sooner, this could have all been on top of her.

               This realization caused her to develop another question.

               “How did you know about me?” she asked suddenly. Rather than answering, Holmes nodded towards the car in front of them. Curious, Mary opened the door and stepped inside.

               There, sitting across from her, leaning his head against his window, was the boy that had buried her.

               Mary eyed the stubble on his cheek. Man, boy…either way, he was not someone she was glad to see. She couldn’t help a sharp intake of breath, and his head snapped her way.

               She wasn’t sure what she’d expected for him to do, but it certainly hadn’t been for him to start beaming at her.

               “Oh thank fuck! You’re okay!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               The blonde slid into the seat next to him, grayish skinned and frowning, followed by a more professional looking brunette, typing furiously on her phone.

Sebastian tried to contain his joy, but _holy shit_ Mary was alive and he hadn’t killed someone else and he’d _saved her from Moriarty._

               “Ah,” he ran a hand through his hair, “Sorry. I’m Sebastian. Sebastian Moran, double agent,” he held out his hand, praying she would take it.

               Instead, she stared at it, “You buried me,” she observed. Sebastian felt a pang of guilt.

               He licked his lips, “Moriarty would have buried us both if I didn’t. And no one would have saved us. He’s told me to go and kill every man that was there that night.”

               She winced, realization dawning in her eyes, “And you’re going to do it?”

               There was a long silence, “I work for him,” Sebastian looked away.

               Another pause, but surprisingly, her reply was gentle and quiet, “I hope you can get out soon.”

               Sebastian knew he was supposed to say he hoped so, too, but he couldn’t make himself. What was he without sniping? A high school dropout, with a DD from the United States Army. He was nothing. There was no other career available to him that would get him through life. Most likely, he’d be working for Jim for the rest of his life…which may or may not be shortened by that fact. He was trapped.

               Suddenly quite saddened by this, Sebastian settled for a nod.

               The rest of the car ride passed in heavy silence, broken only by the constant tapping of who the sniper assumed was Mycroft’s assistant on her smartphone. Holmes himself said nothing while in the front seat, and appeared to be deep in thought, looking scornfully out of his tinted window. Mary…if that was even her real name, was leaning against hers, leaving quite a bit of distance between herself and Sebastian, who decided to copy the other two passengers’ posture. The glass felt cold against his forehead.

               He’d need to be moving soon, if Moriarty let him. It wasn’t safe to stay in a single flat for too long. Not to mention, he didn’t think he could sleep very easily knowing that Jim was so close.

               Stability had never been something Sebastian thought on very much in his day to day life, but now that he finally had a minute to think…it was starting to dawn on him just how out of control his life had gotten.

               God, would his family even recognize him if they saw him now? If someone described the life he led today, would they ever in a million years guess that it was the life _he_ was living? His mom had never been able to picture him in the Army…how the hell was she supposed to comprehend what he was doing now?

               He moved flats bi weekly, if not more often. He was working for the world’s most dangerous criminal mastermind—a psychotic, sadistic, _perverted_ monster. He shot people for money. Jesus fuck, who _did_ that? It had never really seemed real to him…all it was was pulling a trigger and getting money. Now that an actual victim was sitting right next to him, it was real. It was all real and suddenly, Sebastian wanted a list of all the people he’d hit.

               After a little ways, they pulled to a stop and Holmes got out of the car. He actually opened Mary’s door for her, and she climbed out after the brunette assistant. Sebastian started to slide across the seat, but the other girl climbed back inside, blocking his way.

               The sniper frowned up at Mycroft, “What gives?”

               “This is none of your concern, Mr. Moran,” Holmes, infuriatingly, rolled his eyes, “You’ve done your part. Anthea should keep you company. We won’t be long.”

               “What the hell was the point in bringing me if-?”

               Sebastian was cut off when the door slammed in his face. Anthea continued typing, and the sniper glared at her.

               “What could you be typing that’s so important?”

               She smirked without looking up from her screen, “What could be so important to you about seeing that girl inside?”

               That made Sebastian pause. What _was_ so important? He mostly just wanted to make sure she was okay. That Holmes wasn’t half assing this or sending her to be tied up and beaten by government officials.

               “I…” the sniper shook his head, trying and failing to sort out his emotions, “I feel guilty.”

               Anthea’s eyes darted from her phone screen straight to his in half a second. She gave him a long, hard look, before finally sighing.

               “Only because Mycroft _won’t_ fire me,” with a click, she unlocked the doors. Sebastian practically leapt out of the car.

               “Thank you,” he leaned into view off the curb, “Thank you so much!”

               She smirked, and turned back to her phone.

(o0o0o0o0)

               _221B_ , the door read. Sebastian stepped inside quietly, brushing snow out of his hair and listening for voices. It was already dark outside, so there was a chance people were sleeping.

               _“Hello, John,”_ Mycroft’s voice was audible from somewhere above the sniper. He decided to take the stairs in front of him, considering that his best bet.

               Sebastian was very careful to tread lightly, but around the middle of his ascent, an inevitable creak seemed to sound throughout the entire building.

               “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Mycroft didn’t look pleased when he appeared above Sebastian, though he certainly didn’t look surprised, either.

               “I just…wanted to…” Sebastian struggled, and Holmes shook his head, rolling his eyes. The sniper wondered if Mycroft would be suffering vision trouble eventually, with the frequency he did it at.

               “Just come up. We don’t have all day.”

               When Sebastian reached the top of the stairs, a vaguely familiar, stout blond was standing in front of a closed door with Mary, talking quietly. His eyes locked with the sniper’s.

               “Who’s he?” he asked Mycroft. Sebastian started to open his mouth, but Mary spoke before anyone else could.

               “He rescued me. He’s working for-”

               Mycroft coughed loudly, silencing her. He motioned to the closed door.

               “We don’t,” he muttered, “Want anyone to overhear.” The blond man raised his eyebrows.

               “Sherlock’s in his mind palace. But how do we know we can trust-?” he narrowed his eyes at Sebastian, scrutinizing him.

               Mycroft sighed, “Watson, if we go into this, we run more of a risk of discovery. The fact of the matter is, he is trustworthy. More so than my brother, at the moment, unfortunately, who not only has a habit of eavesdropping, but is also romantically Bonded to a criminal mastermind.”

               “Bonded to a criminal-?” something pieced itself together for Sebastian, who shook his head, “Wait, so is that Moriarty’s _boyfriend_ in there? How is this safe for her?”

               “It is neither safe nor ideal,” Mycroft drawled. Watson had looked like he was about to say something, but quickly shut his mouth. “However, let’s just say that I have a few too many people like you,” he looked pointedly at Sebastian, “And my coworkers don’t have the same patience for results that I do. They weren’t very willing to provide safety for you, no matter how much you could offer us,” he was now looking at Mary, who nodded silently.

               “I understand,” she said hoarsely. Sebastian noticed that Watson seemed to be struggling with whether or not he should grab her hand. His fingers twitched.

               “John,” Mycroft said quietly, turning to the blond, “Mrs. Hudson gave her the open flat in the basement. The one no one’s been buying. I trust you will keep her safe. And secret from Sherlock. If Moriarty were ever to find out, she would no doubt be dead faster than I could offer any help. Quite possibly,” he turned to Sebastian, eyes glinting dangerously, “at your hands.”

               “I’ll take care of her,” John said quietly, crossing his arms and nodding curtly, almost, Sebastian noticed, like a soldier, “I promise.”

               Sebastian noticed that Watson had an almost perfect soldier’s posture. Suddenly, he had an urge to talk to John. He wanted to help with Mary. He didn’t want to leave and go back to only talking to Moriarty. He didn’t want to be alone again. Even _Moriarty_ had a boyfriend. Sebastian had no one.

               Mycroft nodded, all business, “Then that’s that. Some clothes, fake documents, and other necessities will be sent to you in a few days’ time, but other than that, what we can give you is quite limited.”

               “Thank you,” she said sincerely, then, turning to Sebastian, she repeated, “Thank you.” The sniper swallowed a lump in his throat.

               “Yeah…yeah, no problem,” he nodded. Behind him, Mycroft already was descending the stairs. Sebastian followed him, and he heard John and Mary copying, probably on their way to her new flat.

               Holmes opened the front door, letting a wave of icy cold air rush over Sebastian. The sniper found himself frozen in place, staring out at the street.

               He turned around in time to see Mary heading down a separate hallway, followed by John. Sebastian hurried to catch up to him, and the blond jumped when the sniper grabbed him by the arm.

               “Hey!” Sebastian avoided John’s eyes at first, convinced they held nothing but disdain, “Sorry. Just, uh…”

               There was a brief pause. John didn’t relax, but Sebastian forced himself to meet the man’s gaze, regardless.

               “Take care of her,” the sniper’s voice cracked, “Okay?”

               Slowly, the tension drained from John’s arm, though his eyes remained cautious. Sebastian let him go, and accepted a hesitant but friendly clap on the back.

               “No problem, mate.”

               Nodding, Sebastian headed out the door, huddled against the cold. Snow and wind buffeted his hair and made him shiver, wishing he had a pair of gloves.

               The sniper started to walk towards the street, only to find that Mycroft was already gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss me? Jesus, I’ve missed this. And I’ve missed you guys. I am NEVER going to do that again. Finals were pushed back (thanks to lots of snow and crazy cold), so I ended up going FAR too long without writing. Seriously. I started to feel pretty terrible. BUT, on the bright side, I worked out a ton of plot holes that were previously unfilled, and I have a very good idea of where the story is going now. In addition, I have REMADE the playlist for this fic on 8tracks, so it, well…doesn’t suck. So feel free to check that out. Also, yes, I know this was a lot of Seb, but you will be seeing more of Jim and Sherlock in the next chapter and forward. Oh boy, if you knew the scenes I had planned, you guys would lose it. Plus, there’s a little surprise related to Seb that I’m going to introduce (possibly next chapter?) that I think you’ll like a lot! And just…AGH, I’m so excited to write again! Reviews make me smile like an idiot. I love you guys, and will hopefully be updating more often. Thanks for being so patient.


	22. Asteroid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to apologize in advance because some of you may have overlooked the fact that Sebastian is literal trash in regards to some things.
> 
> I mean, who isn't, really? But really. He says some things that are 100% not okay, no matter how cute he may be. Maybe he'll find someone who can help him keep the cute and dispose of the trash.

               _Jim’s hands were on Sherlock, both new and familiar._

_It was strange, the detective supposed, that something as simple as a pair of palms could create such a paradox. And yet, despite this awareness, he fully accepted the fact that as much as the idea of Jim’s hands on him made him shiver, his reaction was never, in fact, black or white._

_As usual, he found himself leaning into the touch. He knew that Jim’s lips were millimeters apart from the back of his neck, because he could feel each and every breath that left them ghost across the skin there in a brush of heat, before leaving again._

_Sherlock leaned back, silently praying that Jim would do what he always wanted him to. It had been already several dreams since he’d rediscovered the beauty of neck kisses. They made him feel lightheaded and left a pleasant buzzing in his veins. It was almost, he thought, like being high._

_Impatient, the detective reached behind him and pushed Jim’s head to his neck. His Marked hand touched skin, and everything next happened in a blur._

_He was on the floor, Jim pushing him down onto the hard surface. Sherlock’s shoulder blades hurt, but this seemed to be canceled out by how fantastically naughty they were being. Someone could walk in on them at any moment, and the threat of discovery only made Sherlock want Jim more._

_They were kissing. Moriarty’s lips alternated between attacking Sherlock’s and sucking on his neck. The criminal’s eyes were as beautiful and dark as he remembered, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. Sherlock tried grinding his hips upward but by God_ nothing _was enough. He needed more…_

 _Jim’s tongue was on his neck, wet and hot. Sherlock couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. Moriarty had a hand on his cock and Sherlock was in_ heaven…

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock was torn out of sleep and into full consciousness with a violent jerk. His head pounded for a few aching moments as grim reality came back to him. He was alone in his bedroom. It looked to be early morning, judging from the sunlight scattering across his bed through gaps in the blinds. He was quite overheated; almost feverish, though he knew he wasn’t sick.

               Suddenly, Sherlock was extremely grumpy. He refused to consider the reason why that might be.

               Steadying his breaths to a normal pace, the detective started to untangle himself from blankets, only to find that sweat was not the only thing they were soaked with.

               The detective leaned back on his pillows with a huff. Damn it all. John was going to start noticing if he kept having to do laundry this often. He didn’t _ask_ to have dreams about Jim Moriarty. It just happened.

               …Mutually.

               Sherlock was no fool. He knew they both had a say in it. He knew that the Bond he and Jim shared was strong enough that they were sharing dreams, along with the rest of their conscious. And, as a result of this, he knew that both of them were ever so slightly enjoying this ability.

               Or, more than slightly. The fact that both of them got a say was why it was becoming increasingly disturbing to Sherlock how _pleasant_ his nights were becoming. Silently, he and Jim seemed to both be aware of their secret pleasure, but neither was willing to admit it to the other, and Sherlock, to be honest, was fine with this. He was too confused for an in depth analysis of subconscious desires.

               An in the flesh…encounter with Moriarty had been far too revealing for his taste, _initially_ , but the more dreams he had, the more disappointed he became when there were no longer hands on his skin. It had been horrifying, at first, to be that close to someone, but…now he almost _missed_ it. He _wanted_ to touch Marks again. He _wanted_ breath on his skin and hands in hidden places. _God_ , it terrified him but he wanted it _like a cigarette._

               Porn was no help. He didn’t _feel_ anything, then. It was boring and dull and he was all too aware of how messy everything was. But Jim Moriarty didn’t seem that way. At least, not anymore. Jim made Sherlock feel _alive_ and made his Mark prickle pleasantly and his pulse pick up and _damn it_ , he needed to stop feeling this way.

               Obviously, this was just some sort of fixation. Other than Irene Adler, he’d never felt anything _that way_ towards anyone. This was probably just like she had been. A silly crush. The lure of that which was forbidden to him. That’s all.

               It would have been easier to resist if he’d known that Jim had been merely acting the morning after. But having seen him legitimately distressed, having felt every bit of panic and fear with Moriarty made him, unfortunately, more sympathetic. Which was all the _more_ confusing, because _wasn’t Jim a psychopath?_

Deep down, Sherlock felt like he knew the answer already. He absolutely refused to admit it, but he knew. He just needed it in print.

               Maybe John was right, and the criminal was acting. But the fact of the matter was that Sherlock simply had more information to go off of. It was more than probable that _he_ was correct, not John, and that made everything all the more disconcerting. Because if Jim Moriarty wasn’t feigning his emotions, and Sherlock wasn’t ‘corrupted’, or whatever everyone seemed to think, then what did it suggest that he and Moriarty were enjoying regular erotic dreams together?

               The idea was terrifying. More terrifying than if Jim _was_ a psychopath. For whatever reason, that possibility seemed…easier. It would mean Sherlock could discard everything he’d ever felt for the criminal as trivial, a product of the game. But if he wasn’t being manipulated, if this was all legitimate, where did one go from there? He couldn’t have a secret affair with his nemesis! Not when Mycroft wanted to sedate Moriarty like an animal.

               Suddenly, Sherlock felt very self-conscious. ‘This’. There was no ‘this’. There would be no affairs with Jim Moriarty. _God_ , the detective hoped he hadn’t overheard. Not that it _mattered_ to him what Jim thought of him anymore.

               He _needed_ to stop calling Moriarty that, as well.

               Mercifully, John seemed to be out when Sherlock emerged from his room. Likely, he was with that girl he wanted so desperately to hide from the detective. Sherlock didn’t care—John could do what he wanted. Although, he had to admit, it hurt slightly that he didn’t trust Sherlock enough to at least tell about the relationship. Of course, the detective couldn’t say he deserved much trust from John, given how many other relationships he’d ruined for the doctor.

               After taking a shower and throwing his bedding in the wash, Sherlock decided to do some quick research and settle things once and for all.

**psychopathy symptoms**

               He clicked the first link and started to skim.

**Over the top flattery…quick pace of relationship…demand for commitment.**

               Sherlock didn’t think flattery was really Jim’s style, unless he was the one receiving it. He seemed to be shying away from a relationship in general, so that didn’t fit, either…unless this wasn’t referring solely to romance. The detective supposed that their relationship as nemeses had progressed rather quickly in the last few months. But then again, it had been extremely slow up until that point. And yes, there had been commitment involved, but never had there been a _demand…_

              He skimmed until he saw bullet points.

***Superficial charm and average or above average intelligence.**

_Check,_ Sherlock thought.

***Absence of delusions.**

               _Debatable._

***Absence of anxiety.**

Sherlock paused. That one didn’t fit. Jim—or, Moriarty felt fear often. Perhaps more often than most people. He certainly feared the Bond more than Sherlock did. The detective had felt every cold sweat, every nightmare, every carefully concealed flashback.

               It was strange, to finally acknowledge it. But even so, Jim still fit other symptoms. Sherlock continued to read.

               ***No sense of responsibility.**

_No._

***Insincerity.**

_Probably, towards most people._ But then again, Sherlock was that way, too. Loads of people were that way.

***Impulsiveness.**

 _No…_ Sherlock supposed he’d been slightly more impulsive due to recent events, but overall, he didn’t think Jim the type.

               Damn. He didn’t think _Moriarty_ the type.

***Lack of deep and lasting emotions.**

 _Debatable, but unlikely._ Sherlock supposed the author could be implying love or something similar, here, but fear was definitely an emotion, and it clearly ran deep with the criminal.

***Total self-centeredness.**

_Possibly._

***Inability to see oneself as others do.**

_Obviously not, or else he wouldn’t be so good at creating disguises._

***Trivial and impersonal sex life.**

_Very likely._

               Sherlock didn’t want to consider why he hoped so badly for this particular symptom to be inapplicable. He wondered how much of what they’d done…that night had been really Jim. It would have been nice to remember the criminal accurately, but all Sherlock had to go off of, clear as it was, was another façade he wasn’t sure of the legitimacy of. It was hard to judge if Jim was really ‘Mister Sex’. God knew _Sherlock_ had done things that night he would never have done under only his own influence. Sherlock would probably have been gentler if he’d done it sober. Actually, he probably wouldn’t have done it sober at all.

               Probably.

***Failure to have a life plan outside of destructive purposes.**

_Definitely._

***Lack of genuine suicide attempts.**

Sherlock froze.

               Now that he thought about it…Jim had expressed a desire to die more times than the detective had thought. In fact, he seemed to think about it just as often as Sherlock did. The way he’d spoken of it reminded the detective of a timeless cycle of lethargy, the world around him grey as Lestrade tried to shine a light through the smoke and convince Sherlock to rebuild himself from ruins.

               Had Jim had someone to convince him? Why was he still here if he hadn’t? God knew if Sherlock hadn’t had Lestrade he wouldn’t have needed a ruined reputation to convince him to jump off of Saint Bart’s.

               So…that one was a no. And now Sherlock had nothing but inconclusive data and more confusion. Jim fit almost as many symptoms as he didn’t fit. He ended up spending half an hour looking through similar lists of vague symptoms before stumbling upon something new.

               **Antisocial Personality Disorder.**

               Possible overlap in diagnosis? Sherlock read on.

               **…proper name for psychopathy and sociopathy, which are for the most part no longer diagnosed…**

_No longer diagnosed._

Oh.

               Sherlock did a quick read-through of the symptoms, which were for the most part similar, though a greater emphasis was placed on lack of empathy, and again decided he wasn’t certain.

               Although, admittedly, if he wasn’t certain, if the diagnosis wasn’t resonating with him, then he supposed that could be a clue that he was incorrect.

               Was _he_ not a sociopath? Most of these symptoms were so vague that only an extreme case could really be diagnosed. Looking at them again, only a few actually sounded like him, and only in certain circumstances.

               And Moriarty…Moriarty was still an enigma. Sherlock was vaguely aware of his silent watchfulness on the other side of the Bond, but took his lack of comment to mean that he wanted no part in this decision making process.

               Or, he just didn’t care.

               Sherlock blinked, flushing as a memory of straddling the criminal, in a darkened flat and fog of impulse, pushed itself to the forefront of his mind.

               He shook his head. But…maybe that was it.

               Jim Moriarty might be a psychopath…or have whatever the other term was…but Sherlock _didn’t care._ It didn’t make him any less brilliant or fascinating or _beautiful._ He’d never shied from the detective, even when Sherlock had loudly pronounced himself a sociopath for everyone to hear. Which was, apparently, false anyway. Even when their game had started to spill blood, they’d both stayed in it a hundred percent.

               _Oh, God._ He was rationalizing this. But it _made sense._ Jim Moriarty was…interesting. Unlike most ‘normal’ people. Sherlock cared less about the labels _they_ might apply to Moriarty and him than he did about the stars in the sky.

               _Stop._

The word paralyzed the detective far more than it should have, caught off guard by hearing the criminal address him directly.Sherlock flexed his Marked hand, which was suddenly feeling very sensitive. This was the first time either of them had directly addressed the other in what felt like forever.

               _Listen to your friends. They know what they’re talking about,_ Jim cooed. The detective’s stomach was feeling very light, suddenly.

               Moriarty was peacocking. Putting on a show. God, it was so _obvious_! Did Jim not realize it was?

               _I know you don’t mean it,_ the detective thought smugly, _I feel what you do._

 _Give it a rest,_ the criminal snapped a little too quickly. His despair was seeping through his mask like thick black tar, _Why don’t you go and do something useful? John has a gun. It would be very quick._

 _Watch it,_ Sherlock warned, _That’ll hurt you. Now_ why _do you want me to hurt you?_

_I’m your villain, remember? I still owe you._

_You’re reaching._

Fury spiked through Jim’s side of the Bond, and Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. At least, until that little after note of paranoia hit, as usual. Sherlock wished he knew what that was about. He had several ideas, though for some reason he wanted to know the exact nature of what was eating away at Jim.

               Suddenly, something occurred to Sherlock that should have been clear a very long, long time ago. That had, to be quite honest, been clear for a while. He’d just been too blind to see it.

               Jim Moriarty was…afraid. Like Molly was afraid of starting conversations and John was afraid for that mystery girl. Jim Moriarty, the criminal mastermind, was _actually_ terrified. Despite all the fear he spread throughout London and the world, despite the terror he arose in anyone he came into contact with, he was afraid.

               For whatever reason, this seemed to make what was left of Sherlock’s own fear melt away. He still hadn’t the faintest clue how he felt towards all this, and he still was slightly intimidated by all that had happened between them, but he was certainly feeling a little more like the hero Jim liked to paint him as. And he knew, in that moment, that he could not allow Mycroft to sedate Moriarty.

               _Stop prying._

 _You shook my hand,_ Sherlock pointed out, noting that John had just walked into the flat, _You signed up for this when you met me on the rooftop._

Jim didn’t answer, though Sherlock was detecting a not so subtle air of misery from his end of the Bond.

               He didn’t _want_ to say his next thought directly to Jim. It just slipped out before he could stop it.

               _I know you like the dreams_.

(o0o0o0o0)

 _I know you like the dreams_.

               When Sherlock’s thought hit the criminal, he was in a smaller, homier flat on the north side of London. He’d moved out of the one near Moran for safety reasons a day ago, and was just getting settled amongst the slightly more subdued color scheme; the softer furniture. The flat itself was warmer, but now he felt as though ice had replaced every blood vessel in his body.

               _It’s not true. It’s not true. But you know it’s true…_

The criminal inhaled shakily. It felt like he wasn’t taking in any oxygen. He was cornered, and Sherlock knew it. What could he possibly say to an accusation like that? Sherlock saw everything he thought.

               The only benefit there was to this Bond was that it went two ways.

               _You’re one to talk,_ Jim was very aware he was backed into a corner.

               That seemed, to the criminal’s relief, to shut Sherlock up.               

               Now _why_ would he bring something up like that to Jim in the first place? Sherlock didn’t strike him as the type to track someone down simply for the purpose of harassing them. Then again, he _did_ claim to hate Jim…

               But he couldn’t, or else he wouldn’t be in the dreams at all. The problem with Sherlock’s argument was that, as much as he could accuse Jim of having…a romantic attraction to him, it went both ways. Sherlock must feel something, too, or else they wouldn’t be having this conversation.

               And he wouldn’t have been googling whether Jim was a psychopath or not. And he wouldn’t have decided he didn’t care. And his Mark wouldn’t be prickling softly, aching to be in contact with its partner.

               It was obvious that there was _something_ there, and the criminal was determined to shut it down before it grew into more. It could never happen. The best ending for them, the happiest ending, had been ruined the moment they’d become Soulmates.

               Jim wished, more than anything, that he didn’t feel anything. He wished he hated Sherlock.

               At least before, he’d had a plan. Now he couldn’t seem to even _pretend_ to want them both dead. He knew it was what he _should_ want. But whenever he listened to Sherlock’s thoughts, he _couldn’t_ want it anymore. If Sherlock was dead, no one would be around to think that way. No one would be around to be so clever. It would be a waste, really.

               There were a number of other reasons, which Jim would rather not think about, for Sherlock to stay alive. Good God, they were selfish reasons, too. Impossible reasons. Ideas which would never see the light outside of dreams, obviously. Because it was so terrifying to imagine that he might feel anything other than rivalry towards Sherlock Holmes.

               Jim leaned on a countertop in front of him, shivering at the coolness of the granite against his skin. There were tiny flecks of silver in it, similar in color to the Mark spread across his palm.

               He looked away, feeling nauseous as he closed his hand into a weak fist, then set it flat down on the counter, wishing he could inject apathy into his veins like Sherlock had injected himself into them.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian inhaled the smell of Chinese takeout like it was a drug.

               Well, in a sense, it was a sort of drug. He was sure if Mycroft Holmes or someone similar was here, they’d be well armed with the dictionary definition of ‘drug’ to explain to Sebastian why or why not Chinese food felt like an intoxicating substance to him. However, he was currently _way_ too happy to think about conceited geniuses. He had a paycheck from the previously mentioned genius in his pocket, food in his hands, _and_ a brand new flat in front of him. As upset as he’d recently been over considering how often he had to move, everything seemed to have aligned correctly this time to make it seem just like it was to normal people—a new start.

               And sure, there was his ‘kill everyone present for our creepy graveyard meeting’ job from Moriarty looming over his head. But hey, a man had to do what a man had to do. Maybe he’d meet a girl here. Maybe his job didn’t have to control everything in his life.

               Moriarty had been oddly quiet the past few days, which, in Sebastian’s mind, either meant oncoming doom, or some kind of personal problem. Considering the former was more than a little frightening, because it likely meant both Mary and Sebastian were going to come to a terrible end. So, feeling unusually optimistic, the sniper decided to assume the latter. Because who said a complete madman didn’t get stressed out sometimes? Maybe he was having boyfriend trouble.

               In spite of himself, Sebastian smirked. It was, admittedly, entertaining to picture Jim Moriarty in _any_ domestic setting. Yelling at his boyfriend over who forgot to record Glee or something…

               Okay, it was as weird as it was funny. Maybe he shouldn’t get too comfortable. Still, he felt pretty goddamn good. And, his mood was only improved by the pretty, colorfully dressed brunette who looked his way when he turned a corner.

               Sebastian’s steps awkwardly slowed to a stop, and he was just opening his mouth to say something when she beat him to it, shaking her head as if she’d made a mistake.

               “Sorry,” she closed her eyes, clearly silently berating herself, “Sorry sorry. I didn’t mean…to stare or anything. I just have a lot on my mind right now and sometimes I just start staring and acting strange…” she trailed off into silence, and met his eyes again for reassurance.

               Of course, at this point, Sebastian couldn’t help but break into a grin. He looked her up and down. Her hair was up in a long ponytail, tied back with a pink hair tie, and she wore a colorful sweater with a collared shirt underneath. Not that Sebastian was a fashion expert, but he was pretty sure you weren’t supposed to clash patterns like that. She looked a little older than him, but not old enough that it mattered, he thought. He’d always wanted to date an older woman. It was the kind of edgy thing he’d brag to his friends about, if he had any.

               She was fidgeting nervously, her expression quickly falling into one of despair.

               “Sorry, I tend to-”

               “No no no!” Sebastian cut her off in a hurry, before she could say anything bad about herself again, “I thought it was cute. I, uh, I just moved in actually. I think,” he glanced at the door she was standing by, “I think we might be neighbors.”

               “ _Oh_ ,” she put a hand to her mouth, “Right. You’re the American who decided he wanted the place at the last minute!”

               The sniper bit his lip nervously, suddenly very aware of the gun inside his jacket, “Yeah, that’s me. You guys really like to gossip over here, don’t you?”

               She frowned, “Not more than in any other neighborhood…”

               “No, I mean, in Britain.”

               “Oh, right,” she nodded, suddenly looking deep in thought. Sebastian took a step closer. He attempted to balance his food on one arm as he held a hand out.

               “I’m Sebastian,” he gave her his real name without thinking. Eh, there were a lot of Sebastians in the world. What were the odds that she was somehow connected to all this?

               A bright smile spread itself across her face, seeming to light up the whole hallway around them, “Molly.”

               Her hand was warm against his, and Sebastian gave it a firm shake before letting it fall between them, grabbing his food with both hands again.

               “Do you need help with that?” she gestured towards his burden, and he winced.

               “Yeah. Yeah that would be nice,” he let out a breath as she took two containers off, leaving him with just one, “Aw, now you’re just making me look bad,” he teased as they took a few steps forward to the sniper’s door.

               Molly looked confused, “Why?”

               Sebastian rolled his eyes, “Give the guy one package and take two yourself?”

               “Ex _cuse_ me,” Molly gave him a rather frightening look as he fumbled for his key, causing him to freeze, “If you’re implying that I’m…that I’m weak, or something…”

               “No!” the sniper eyed her rainbow sweater, “I don’t! I mean, girl power, right?”

               She stared at him, and Sebastian started to feel very stupid.

               “Uh,” he gave her an apologetic smile, “Sorry. Pretend I didn’t say anything. Besides hello.”

               Molly smiled coyly, “Hello then, Sebastian.”

               Happy to have made a new friend (future girlfriend?) the sniper pushed open the door to his new, fully furnished flat. He’d dropped off his things here a few hours prior, which wasn’t much to begin with, so he was surprised to find there was one thing extra in the sitting room than he’d left there.

               What was even more surprising was the fact that this particular thing was, actually, a person. Namely, Jim Moriarty’s boyfriend, who was currently lounging on the couch— _Sebastian’s_ couch, typing on his own cell phone.

               Sebastian almost dropped his takeaway in shock.

               “What the fuck are _you_ doing here?” “Sherlock?” he and Molly spoke at the same time, and the sniper turned to her incredulously.

               “You _know_ him?”

               Sherlock spoke before she had a chance to answer, grating on Sebastian’s nerves.

               “Yes, we know each other,” he got up off the couch, starting towards Sebastian, “Made many great memories in the morgue together. I solve cases. She stares at me and makes futile attempts to engage me romantically. It’s a professional relationship, I can assure you.”

               Sebastian wasn’t sure whether his jaw or Molly’s dropped closer to the floor. He knew she was certainly redder than he was. At least before the words fully sunk in. He set the takeout down violently before taking a step towards Sherlock.

               “Who do you think you are?” he demanded, “You can’t just talk to her like that! And I thought you were gay!”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, and the sniper was reminded vaguely of Mycroft Holmes, “I’m not gay. Just because someone doesn’t live their life in fear of being perceived as anything other than heterosexual does not make them-”

               “But you’re literally dating Ji-”

               Sherlock coughed loudly, nodding towards Molly, who finally seemed to remember her voice. Her gaze, to Sebastian’s joy, hardened.

               “He’s right,” she straightened her back, “You shouldn’t talk to me that way. After all I’ve done for you, Sherlock Holmes-”

               “Wait, _Holmes_?” Sebastian was starting to become convinced this was all a weird dream, “As in _Mycroft’s_ brother?”

               “Yes,” Sherlock rolled his eyes again, “His younger brother, apparently unable of handling adult life on his own, despite having arguably made more of a name for himself in the past five years than Mycroft has in the last ten. All while maintaining my figure. Wish I could say the same for him.”

               “You’re so cruel!” Molly fought her way back into the conversation, “Why do you need to…point out all these terrible things? Why can’t you just let people be?”

               “Yeah!” Sebastian was getting riled up now, “Just because you’re smarter than people doesn’t mean you get to treat them like trash!”

               Infuriatingly, Sherlock smirked, “Never said I was smarter. Projecting? Though I will, for the sake of time and those less observant in the room, point out the firearm inside your jacket.”

               The room grew very quiet. Sebastian turned to Molly, who took a tiny step away from him. She looked afraid.

               “Oh, no. Molly, wait,” Sebastian pleaded, “He’s lying. I’d never-”

               “He’s never wrong,” she said quietly, “Maybe I should go.”

               “No, don’t!” Sebastian called after her even as she strode to the door, “I used to be in the Army, okay? I get paranoid!”

               “Whatever trouble you two are in,” Molly turned back towards them one last time, taking a deep breath, “Don’t expect me to…to help you at all.”

               With that, she closed the door. Sebastian would much rather have tasted Sherlock’s blood at this point than Chinese food.

               “What the fuck was that for?” he demanded.

               “She had to leave,” Sherlock said matter of factly, his voice faded to a monotone, “Actually, I did you a favor. If she knows you’re involved with Jim, she won’t want anything to do with you.”

               “Jim? Jim _Moriarty_? Is that what this is about?”

               “Yes. Try to keep up,” Sherlock snipped, making Sebastian grit his teeth.

               “No. Not if you keep treating me like I’m stupid.”

               “And how do you want me to treat you?” Holmes asked dryly, “Like the prodigy you are?”

               Sebastian had had enough of this, “Just…shut up!” he exclaimed. There was something he needed to be upset about, he just wasn’t sure what. “Why the hell do you think you can talk to me like I’m less of a person than you are? You’re just a…a…”

               The look Sherlock gave him was nothing short of diabolical, as though he was enjoying this, “Go on. Say it.”

               “You’re a fucking faggot, alright? And you can pretend that you’re better but you never will be, alright? Because no matter how smart you are, it’ll never change the fact that you’d rather have it up the ass. Why don’t you do the world a favor and _piss off!_ ”

               Sebastian wasn’t sure how much of it he meant. Not really. He knew he felt a little bit sick afterwards at the expression on Sherlock’s face. Holmes wasn’t even angry. He just looked like a disappointed teacher or something.

               “Feel better?” Sherlock asked quietly. Sebastian ran his hands through his hair.

               “No,” he moaned in misery, “I liked her! Why did you have to do that? You did it in the car, too! Right before Moriarty shot me.”

               “I have a low tolerance,” Holmes drawled, “for people like you. And before you go on assuming I’m speaking of your intellect,” he spoke quicker as Sebastian opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again, “Think back to that speech you just made.”

               Sebastian blinked.

               “I did some looking through my brother’s files,” Holmes’s voice was barely a whisper, “I dug up whatever dirt I could on this American sniper they said was so special. I thought I would find someone intriguing. But instead I found a high school dropout from a wealthy suburban neighborhood with a fully present and supporting family. Do you want to know what I can deduce from that?”

               The sniper shook his head, but it seemed Sherlock wasn’t taking no for an answer.

               “You’re an ignorant, sheltered, entitled brat,” Holmes said quietly, “You are the type of person Jim Moriarty would take great joy in killing. So I suggest, if you don’t want to wake up one morning underwater, that you help me.”

               “I was homeless,” Sebastian croaked. He was frozen by anger and something else he didn’t quite recognize.

               “And whose fault was that? You got drunk and stabbed a fellow soldier.”

               Sebastian felt himself go pale.

               “Why should I help you?” his voice rose a little bit, “Especially after you just said all that.”

               “Jim Moriarty and I share thoughts,” Sherlock took a step closer to Sebastian, so that he was in his personal bubble, and showed him his Marked hand, “He can access anything in my mind, if I don’t guard it closely enough. Dreams, emotions, memories, anything. He can see all I just deduced about you. Unless I choose to delete it.”

               Sebastian frowned, “Delete it?” He wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

               “Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, “Delete it. I won’t bother explaining. It might be too-”

               “Yeah, yeah,” the sniper glared at Holmes, “Too tough for the basic, ‘privileged’ American to understand. Fine. So if I do what you want, you’ll delete this and make sure Jim doesn’t kill me. You know your brother is already protecting me?”

               “He can’t do it forever,” Sherlock said earnestly, “Jim Moriarty is a brilliant mind. Mycroft isn’t used to being challenged. Not like I am. The only reason he’s able to keep tabs on Moriarty is through you. He doesn’t think I’m reliable. Thinks I’m unable to think without Jim’s interference. So, you can receive protection from someone who knows no more about Moriarty than you do, which isn’t much, or you can receive it from me, the man who hears his every thought.”

               As much as Sebastian hated to admit it, it made sense.

               He sighed, “What do you want me to do?”

               “Stop giving Mycroft information about Moriarty. Tell him only what Moriarty wants you to. Be loyal to Jim.”

               Realization dawned on Sebastian. Why hadn’t he seen this sooner?

               “You want me to protect your boyfriend,” he said softly, taking an involuntary step back from Sherlock.

               “He’s not,” Holmes rolled his eyes once more, “my…boyfriend,” he winced, as though saying the word physically hurt him, “And yes, by extension, I want you to protect him.”

               “You love him,” Sebastian assumed. To his surprise, a slight blush crept its way onto Holmes’s normally stoic features, and he blinked a few times rapidly, as though something was in his eyes.

               “I…” he shook his head, “That’s…no. I don’t love him.”

               “But you guys are Soulmates.”

               “You tossed a slur at me minutes ago,” Sherlock pointed out.

               “Doesn’t mean you aren’t in love,” Sebastian said dully. Even to _himself_ , he sounded stupid, but he couldn’t stop talking.

               Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed completely paralyzed that anyone could say the things Sebastian did and still go through life functioning correctly.

               “The Bond was an accident. I don’t love him any more than you love Molly.”

               Sebastian didn’t love Molly, not yet, but he certainly thought she was cute. He thought it was better not to mention this parallel to Sherlock.

               “You care about him enough to protect him, though,” the sniper pointed out, and Sherlock sighed loudly.

               “It’s more the _idea_ of him. I do not _care_ about Jim Moriarty. Sentiment is something I take great care to avoid-”

               Sebastian couldn’t resist a smirk, “Obviously.”

               Sherlock gave him a look that clearly meant ‘shut up’, “Do we have an accord?” he held out his Marked hand for the sniper to shake, and, after a moment of staring, Moran took it.

               “Deal.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, what a mess. But then again, love can be messy. Maybe Molly can be of some help in all this…
> 
> Oh, and friendly reminder not to do what Sherlock is doing in this chapter. Don't ever try to diagnose somebody you know with a mental illness just going off of what other people say about them, or off of symptoms you see on the internet. It's not good, okay? Sherlock is trash. Don't be Sherlock. Be Molly Hooper. AKA the only character on this damn show that fails to disappoint me on a regular basis.
> 
> Leave me your thoughts?


	23. Blueshift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this entire chapter with the instrumenttal of Lana Del Rey's Old Money on repeat. So if you want that vibe...go for it.

               “Checkmate.”

               John looked across the table to find Mary watching him with a not-so-subtle smirk on her face. For the first few days she’d spent at Baker Street, her smiles had been few and far between, and small when they _did_ show themselves. Now, they spread themselves across her face easily, transforming her from a pretty woman to a beautiful one.

               “You’ve beaten me again,” the doctor sighed, shaking his head, “Sure you’re not cheating?”

               Mary feigned an offended expression, “ _John Watson_ , how could you accuse me, the ex-black market assassin for hire, of dishonesty?”

               John started to move the black pieces back to their starting positions, “I may not be as good at deduction as Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not _Anderson_ , either.”

               This wasn’t the first time he’d brought up the man with Mary, and she grinned in recognition of the name, “I feel bad bashing him with you, when I don’t even know him. How do I know _he’s_ not the nice one?”

               The white pieces clacked loudly when she set them down on the board.

               “I mean,” Mary continued, “ _You’re_ the one who rooms with Moriarty’s Soulmate.”

               The air between them seemed suddenly very heavy. Jim Moriarty himself was a topic they’d taken many precautions to avoid, despite Mary’s openness about her past.

               Maybe it was because Mary’s past was behind her. Moriarty, on the other hand, was still alive, until Mycroft managed to capture him. John just prayed that, when the criminal _was_ captured, he would be kept under better security than last time.

               _And far, far away from Sherlock._

“I’m worried about him,” John said quietly, “Sherlock. I know you’ve never met him-”

               Mary studied him with grey eyes, tilting her head slightly, “You can just ask me. If you like.”

               John frowned, “Ask you wh-?”

               “You know you want to ask me about Moriarty,” she clarified, “I was his first in command.”

               The doctor snorted humorlessly, “You make it sound like the military.”

               “I think…” Mary said slowly, “You can’t really compare the two. Besides the fact that they change you. Leave scars.”

               There was a short pause.

               “Do you have scars?” John asked softly. As much as the rest of the world seemed to romanticize battle wounds, the doctor—and Mary, he inferred—knew better. Scars weren’t tattoos with better stories; they were parasites. The sort of thing that made you wince when you accidentally looked at them. The sort of thing you wasted energy on day in and day out to cover up and pretend it wasn’t there. Scars were burdens, so maybe talking about it with someone else that had them was a way to lighten the weight.

               Grey eyes watched him cautiously, “What do you think?” she asked hoarsely, “John, sometimes I wake up and find them in places I wasn’t aware I had them.”

               John winced, suddenly concerned about Sherlock again, “How many are from…him?” he asked tentatively.

               “Who?” Mary asked, “Moriarty?” when John nodded confirmation, she continued, “I don’t think any were directly from him, actually. Seeing him face to face was a rarity. I think he trusted me more than his other associates, which was why he was so…angry at my betrayal.”

               “Did he have a temper?” John asked, intrigued, “Was he ever angry at his other…associates?”

               “I’m sure he has a very quick temper,” Mary frowned, thinking, “But he never… _really_ showed it. It’s hard to tell if he’s being…serious or not. If he’s performing. He’s so theatrical that it doesn’t seem authentic. Though maybe he’s just that mad.”

               “Do you think he’s mad?”

               “Probably,” Mary said matter of factly, “Though it’s not really about anger or acting. He’s just very…calculated. His default persona is just completely cold and emotionless. Very quiet, very soft spoken. His voice is so terribly soft it’s like…” she grimaced, “like a tarantula. I’d almost rather he was a shouting maniac.”

               “Yeah,” John said glumly, remembering their last encounter with Jim, “Well, be careful what you wish for.”

               “I try to be,” she said softly.

               “You must be tired of talking about it,” John shook his head, “I’m sure Mycroft is leaving no stone unturned.”

               “He’s not,” she confirmed, “I think he’s worried about his baby brother, and I think you’re worried about your best friend.”

               The doctor’s mouth twisted. ‘Worried’ was a mild way of putting it.

               “John,” Mary continued, leaning forward, “You and Sebastian have done so much for me. I can’t repay him, so let me repay you. Go ahead and ask me anything you need to know. I don’t mind.”

               John sighed again, leaning away from the table. He knew it wasn’t an easy topic for her, but Mary was not weak, and he got the sense that she wasn’t the type who liked pity.

              “Alright,” he acquiesced, “What else do you know about Jim Moriarty?”

              Mary gave a small smile, “You’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

              “Like…” John drummed his fingers, “How hard do you think it will be for Mycroft to find him?”

              She smiled still, but it was fading quickly. Her eyes left John’s to study the chess board.

              “I wish I could say something else, John-”

              “No,” he shook his head, holding up a hand, “I can take it. I’d rather have the truth.”

               A moment of ringing silence fell.

              “They’ll never find him,” Mary breathed, eyes wide and pleading, “I’m so sorry, John. Moriarty never makes the same mistake more than once. And while we have Sebastian, I think… I worry that he’ll be dead before he can truly give us any useful information.”

               John was silent, prompting her on.

               “He has God knows how many flats hidden across London, and the rest of the world, as well. He has so many people working for him that it doesn’t matter who puts his face out with a price on it. He can manipulate and change it so that it means nothing.”

               The doctor opened his mouth, then closed it.

               “…I think you’re forgetting one thing,” he said quietly, “Moriarty is human. If this Bond has proved anything, it’s that. And speaking of which,” John looked away, unsure how to ask what he wanted to, “What do you know about his…romantic life?”

               Mary laughed, shaking her small form. She was back to a healthy weight, now that she had _some_ stability in the form of protection, but was still tiny compared to, say, Sherlock. If they ever met, he would tower over her.

               “I don’t think he shares that kind of thing with anyone, much less me,” Mary giggled, “Though it would have improved our relationship considerably if he’d called me up once in a while to rant about his exes.”

               John bit his lip, “He…just seemed a little…” he trailed off, remembering their first encounter at the pool. Jim had had little consideration for personal space, then, and the doctor had no trouble believing this was still the case.

               Mary nodded, “He’s intimidating. Though if there’s anyone he can’t intimidate, from what you’ve told me,” she stated firmly, “it’s Sherlock.”

               John nodded, feeling defeated for more reasons than chess, “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim stared at the text message, running a hand through his damp hair.

               **Boss, there’s something important I need to tell you. SM**

The criminal had already felt a migraine starting to rear its ugly head as soon as he’d gotten out of the shower and seen Moran’s name. This wasn’t helped by the fact that Sherlock seemed to have forgotten to eat again, and was completely consumed, at the moment, by an experiment.

               Throwing himself in an armchair and resigning himself to the reality that this was going to be a bad evening, he typed and sent a reply.

               **Moran, this had better be good. JM**

Jim was never overwhelmingly thrilled to talk to Sebastian, but he’d seen enough through the Bond, recently, to know that now he had even more reasons to dislike the sniper. Sherlock’s opinion of the man seemed to have greatly decreased in recent days, and the criminal wondered whether he would find out why tonight. The two had barely interacted with each other at all during the escape from Mycroft, weeks ago, so Jim was curious what caused the big change. He also wondered if, after finding this out, he was going to have to find a new first in command.

               His phone lit up, and it took a moment for Jim to gather the will to check it.

               **Sherlock Holmes was in my new flat the other day. SM**

Jim’s interest piqued upon seeing the detective’s name, despite the fact that he wasn’t surprised in the slightest by its appearance.

               **And? JM** Jim had to resist the urge to add multiple question marks.

               **He asked a favor of me. SM**

**I’m on the edge of my seat. JM**

Sebastian took so long to reply that, by the time he did, Jim literally _was_ on the edge of his seat.

**He knows that I’m supposed to be working for Mycroft Holmes, and giving him information on you. He showed up at my flat and asked me to stay loyal to you. To give Mycroft false information. What I’m already doing for you. SM**

Jim stared at the screen.

               **How did he connect you to Mycroft in the first place? JM**

Of course, it was always possible Sherlock had seen something through Jim’s thoughts. But why the hell would Sherlock bother to intervene? It wasn’t as if he should _care_ about Jim’s well being. The situation was completely under control.

**Idk isn’t he a detective or something SM**

It took a moment for Jim to fully take in the last message in all its glory. He waited a full minute before he started typing.

               **Use punctuation. JM**

**Sorry Boss. SM**

**I mean SM**

**Sorry, Boss. SM**

Jim wasn’t sure whether Moran was trying to be funny or not.

               **This isn’t amusing me, Moran. JM**

**Sorry, Boss. SM**

**How did Holmes find you? I shouldn’t have to babysit you like this. JM**

**He just did. Said you guys were Soulmates or something. He doesn’t like what Mycroft plans on doing to you. SM**

Sherlock…didn’t like what Mycroft had planned. Jim supposed it made sense that he still wanted to preserve the game’s integrity. But _why_ had he bothered tracking Sebastian down when he knew Jim already had it under control? Where was the _logic?_

               And _why_ did Jim’s abdomen feel so…warm?

               It was almost _cute._ Granted, that reaction was based almost entirely on assumptions that weren’t any more likely than the dreams he and Sherlock shared. The detective made mistakes, unfortunately, just like the rest of the ordinary people did. Quite frankly, Jim didn’t care to delve into whatever kind of sentiment his decision had been influenced by.

              Not that Sherlock felt any sentiment for Jim at all. The criminal knew he didn’t feel anything for Sherlock. Nothing besides the shared challenge of the game. But that was over now.

               Jim hated it. He _deeply_ hated how still, despite knowing all of this, Sebastian’s message had made him feel…content. More content than he had in a very long time. Enough that, suddenly, this conversation seemed ever so slightly…amusing, to him.

               **You’re doing it again. JM**

**sorry boss SM**

**SORRY, BOSS. SM**

A smirk tugged at Jim’s lips.

               **Moran, do you realize who you are texting? JM**

**Yes, Boss. SM**

Before he could get tempted into doing something foolish, Jim put his phone back in sleep mode, setting it down so it was out of easy reach.

               _Why_ would Sherlock Holmes find it necessary to tell Moran about the Bond? Obviously, he’d tracked the sniper down through Mycroft Holmes; Jim still had him feeding the Ice Man false information left and right. But Sherlock knew Jim could handle himself. He’d never seemed _fond_ of Mycroft’s idea of indefinite sedation, but to go so far as to track down Sebastian, ask a favor, _and_ add the unnecessary information about the Bond…

               It was illogical. Unless Sherlock was trying to manipulate him in some way. Unless he’d known Sebastian was going to go back to Jim.

               The criminal reached for his phone again.

               **What did he offer you in return? JM**

**Information about you. He said he could read your mind through your Bond. SM**

Ah. That made sense, then.

               _Why, why, WHY_ was Jim disappointed about that? What the hell had he expected? Sherlock to bashfully admit he had a Soulmate who he wanted to communicate with through an imbecile of an employee? Of course not.

               Damn. He still wanted to know what had happened. How had the interaction Sebastian was describing caused Sherlock’s opinion of the sniper to take such a nosedive? It was important he got to the bottom of this. Couldn’t have another Jo incident. People were fallible, Jim liked security, and, above all, he _hated_ not knowing things. And there was one way he could be certain about the information he needed.

               Reluctantly, Jim leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and, though he’d avoided it completely up until this point, stepped onto the bridge between minds that was his and Sherlock’s Bond.

               Sherlock was startled by the sudden intrusion into his mind, sending a slight jolt through the connection at the realization of what Jim was doing.

               Suddenly, it occurred to the criminal that this was the first time he’d ever explored Sherlock’s thoughts so closely. Sherlock had gotten too comfortable, and as a result, there were very few doors so tightly locked Jim knew he wouldn’t be able to reach them tonight.

               Jim had been expecting a comment, at the very least. He knew _he_ would have been not only indignant, but also alarmed, at the situation if their roles had been reversed. Instead, Sherlock cleared all his current thoughts, leaving his mind free of clutter as Jim searched. He was a watchful, neutral presence, almost as if he was looking over Jim’s shoulder.

               A rush of excitement came over the criminal. This was _Sherlock’s_ mind. Oh, how often he’d entertained the idea of exploring Holmes’s thoughts, but never had he _dreamed_ it might become a reality. Someday, he’d have to try exploring Sherlock’s actual mind palace. If his thoughts were an iceberg, Jim would only reach the very tip, today. All he’d be delving into today was what Sherlock didn’t bother to organize in a systematic manner.

               There were a lot of faces to sort through. Jim caught glimpses of Sally Donovan, her labels of ‘freak’ seeming to echo around him. Unconsciously, the criminal tightened a fist.

               There was a dog; old looking and red furred. Sherlock quickly nudged him away from that particular memory, so Jim assumed it must have been personal. Something out of childhood, likely.

               He didn’t comment.

               Much of the first few minutes consisted of arbitrary things. A few of John Watson’s computer passwords, his many girlfriends (most of which Jim couldn’t even see in their entirety—it appeared they weren’t important enough for Sherlock to remember their faces), some chemical formulas, phone numbers…

               Jim pushed forward. Behind him, Sherlock seemed to be getting slightly more uncomfortable.

               Some of these memories seemed to hold more weight. Something seemed to move into focus on his right…a teenaged version of Sherlock was shouting—no, almost _screaming—_ at a distressed looking mother while a pudgy Mycroft sneered…

               The memory quickly grew fuzzy and out of focus. It was clear this was not something Sherlock was comfortable showing Jim, either.

               Not that the criminal blamed him at all.

               There was Adler, now, though Jim balked slightly upon approaching that memory. It wasn’t only visual, he could _feel_ every bit of it. Sherlock’s pulse had spiked not only at the beautiful woman in front of him but also the _delicious_ knowledge that he was going to beat her, just like he’d beaten them all. Jim could feel Irene’s pulse under his fingertips, smell her perfume, feel violin strings under his fingers as he composed her a song.

               _He loved her,_ Jim thought before he could censor himself, gazing fascinated at Irene’s naked body through Sherlock’s eyes. There were deductions everywhere and nowhere, because everything Sherlock thought of was overshadowed by a sense of amazement over all that was in front of him.

               Hm.

               The detective scoffed gently, clearly not wanting to offer a comment on the matter, though the criminal had a general sense it was because Holmes assumed he wouldn’t understand.

               Maybe he couldn’t.

               Jim didn’t look twice at the awkward Christmas party involving Molly…he had enough of an idea of what must have happened there without even looking. Oh, there was so much here. A more recent talk with Mycroft over cigarettes. A first meeting with John Watson, and the deductions Sherlock had already been making about him.

               The differences in temperature between memories was shocking. Irene was hot. Meeting John Watson had been warm, like sunlight. Sherlock had been…hopeful. For what, Jim had no idea. Maybe that was what happened when you met someone you actually enjoyed.

               It was, actually, quite similar to how he’d felt when he’d met Sherlock for the first time.

               There were ice cold happenings, too. Jim could feel Sherlock’s hands shaking in the frigid air, itching for another fix of the drugs they’d become dependent on. He could feel the desolation in his _own_ chest when Lestrade tried to convince Sherlock to keep living, ‘just try to keep going, mate, because London needs you.’

               Then Jim saw himself.

               There was the first time he’d met Sherlock—God, Holmes had thought him a fool. But then he’d appeared in a Westwood suit in a darkened swimming pool, and Sherlock had felt like _finally_ something interesting was happening, and he almost wanted to _thank_ Jim…though that wasn’t appropriate, since there was John strapped to Semtex…

               So much anticipation and ‘what if’s and calculation surrounded him in Sherlock’s mind that it was hard to make out any concrete opinions. But he wanted to know the truth, _God_ , he wanted to see more. He could feel Sherlock’s pulse spiking upon meeting Richard Brooke, chasing him up the stairs only to have the door slammed in his face.

               And then the rooftop. Jim was slightly disappointed to find it was a very cold memory for Sherlock. Finality weighed like a rock in Sherlock’s stomach, accompanied by a general exhaustion and sense of disenchantment that was enough to turn the memory itself grey.

               It wasn’t a pleasant sensation. Jim had assumed that Sherlock enjoyed every moment of the game. This new realization that the criminal may have been alone with fire in his veins for some of their encounters was…mildly upsetting.

               It was difficult to stay upset, however, when the detective was marveling at how alien and mad and _beautiful_ his adversary’s eyes were. Indeed, Sherlock seemed to have either been unable to forget the exact shade of Jim’s irises since their meeting by night at the pool.

              The criminal did a quick search to see when else Sherlock had thought about them like that. There were, to his surprise, quite a few instances in which the detective had marveled at the darkness of his irises. A few even predated the Bond, and had taken place when Jim wasn’t present.

               Sherlock continued to offer no comment. Jim had the impression the detective was, at this point, pretending to ignore him.

               In actuality, Sherlock seemed to have catalogued far more than just Jim’s eyes, over the course of time. Recently, he’d started to develop entire _formulas_ for the smoothness of Jim’s skin, for his hair in Sherlock’s fingers and his lips wet on Sherlock’s neck…the detective had memorized every crease in Jim’s skin, every inflection of his voice ever made.

               Jim couldn’t fathom why anyone would _genuinely_ like his eyes. He’d always used them to frighten people.

               A nasty memory pushed itself to the front of the criminal’s mind, and he suppressed it again quickly.

               All Jim could do was…stare. Stare at this revelation, this new theory. It was so shocking to see himself through Sherlock’s eyes in this way that he felt physically rooted to the spot. However, when more intimate body parts started to show themselves, Jim very quickly backed off, distancing himself from Sherlock’s mind once more and forcibly ignoring the detective’s presence as he snapped back to reality.

                Jim stared at nothing for a moment, unable to do anything more than simply breathe. Suddenly, finding out why Sherlock had bothered finding Sebastian seemed…unimportant.

               Good God…he was…he had to be pretending.

               Sherlock must have orchestrated this, right? This had to be some sort of joke. But no one could feign that much of their thoughts! Not even Sherlock. The detective thought _Jim_ was the one faking, but the criminal was more confused than ever as to what game they were exactly playing, now.

               Obviously, Sherlock had control over their shared dreams just as Jim did. Jim had been under the assumption that the detective was trying to manipulate him in some way by continuing their intimacy through the Bond, but…

               When everything was taken into account, it didn’t add up. Sherlock had so many... _good_ thoughts about Jim. _Sentimental_ thoughts, unrelated to the game. It was slightly amazing to see the man the detective saw when he looked at Jim, because that certainly wasn’t what the criminal saw in the mirror each morning. Unless Jim was really, truly overlooking something…all the signs pointed towards something emotional.

               It was terrifying to consider that Sherlock _wasn’t_ faking. This idea that both of them had something…more on their minds than mutual destruction. It was foolish, and cheapening, and…so, so tempting.

               Jim’s Mark felt like it was buzzing with energy, as did his head. He felt _light_ and anxious and frightened because love was always a vulnerability. It was never worth the pain and offered more strife than reward.

               And yet…

               He wanted to die anyway, did he not?

               If he and Sherlock were damned no matter what they did at this point, if any ending beyond this point for them would be ugly, then what did he have to lose?

               Jim was horrified when a hysterical giggle almost escaped his throat.

               No. It was stupid. Stupid and foolish. Jim could endure physical pain, he was sure. He could take almost any emotional blow as well. But that was coming from most people, and Sherlock was anything _but_ most people. Sherlock was…Sherlock.

               _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock…_

But then again…Sherlock always had possessed a tendency towards nobility. He didn’t enjoy hurting people. Only when he was pushed would he go through with it.

               With a pang, Jim realized they had that in common.

               If Sherlock really wasn’t faking, Jim wasn’t even certain he reciprocated these feelings! Of course, he felt it all, but actually going through with things like kissing Sherlock and murmuring things about emotions and stars and climaxes into his ear was something entirely different.

               _Oh, fuck._

               No. No it wasn’t different at all. He _wanted_ it. And this could very well be a simple matter of chemicals, but God knew he needed a high just as badly as Sherlock did. He needed stimulation before he put a gun to his head, and Sherlock was the only person that had ever been able to provide that. Of course, this could be easily labeled an experiment. That was all it was. An experiment. Jim could easily toss this hypothesis away to form a new one if it failed.

               Yes. That’s what this was. A hypothesis. Though there were a few too many variables to make for a successful experiment. There was Watson to worry about. He’d doubtless disapprove when his best friend started spending time with the man who’d strapped him to Semtex. Then there was big brother Holmes, who wanted Jim dead more than Sherlock ever had. And Sebastian, who was far too stupid to handle the criminal web if anything happened to Jim. Plus, who would stop Sherlock from just choosing to asphyxiate Jim while he slept?

               …Assuming they, at some point, slept together. Again.

               Jim didn’t approve of the way his stomach seemed to jump at the prospect. In fact, he didn’t approve of this entire experiment at all. _Logically_ , it made zero sense. But perhaps that’s what made it fun.

               For the first time in a very, very long time, he felt…alive. Like he had a reason to be alive.

               The criminal picked up his phone again and typed a quick message to Sebastian.

               **And did he tell you what sorts of things he could read about me? JM**

It was a moment before Sebastian responded.

               **No, Boss. Sorry. SM**

Jim grinned at how closely the sniper was clearly watching his grammar.

               **Is there anything else of significance I should know? JM**

**I don’t think so, Boss. SM**

Jim silently cursed. He wanted to hear more about Sherlock…His own desperation was starting to shock him.

               No….He was _not gay_. He wasn’t sure _what_ he was.

               Actually, Jim was quite certain of one thing, as he leaned back in his armchair with his neck at an uncomfortably steep angle.

               He was _completely_ fucked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter this time. But…*grins and shrugs* Jim. See you guys next time.


	24. Binary

               Sebastian’s heart hammered as his hand hovered over Molly’s door. He had a small bouquet of flowers on his arm, what he hoped was an irresistible apologetic expression on his face, and one of his nicer leather jackets on his back.

               Now if only he could man up and knock on the goddamn door.

               _Come on,_ the sniper scolded himself, _You’re an ex US Army sniper now working for the most dangerous criminal mastermind in the world. You can knock on a girl’s door._

Granted, this was a pretty, _British_ girl who probably hated his guts thanks to Sherlock Holmes, but the idea stood.

               Swallowing his fear, Sebastian knocked on the door.

               _“In a minute!”_

               Suddenly, Sebastian started to panic. What the hell was he supposed to say when she opened the door? ‘Hey, sorry for carrying a loaded firearm into your flat after I suddenly and without explanation moved in a few days ago?’ Jesus Christ, because that wasn’t suspicious at _all._

               Maybe he shouldn’t have done this. Maybe he should just accept the fact that he was going to be alone for the rest of his life. Buy a cat for every hit he performed for Jim.

               Before he could leave, however, the door was opened, and there in front of him stood Molly Hooper, with her auburn hair in a complex looking braid and a polka dotted collar peeking out from a blue sweater.

               “Oh, Sebastian…” she looked him up and down, wide eyed and clearly surprised. She looked almost afraid.

               _She probably is._

“Hey, uh…” he met her eyes, hoping he looked apologetic, “Listen, I just wanted to apologize about the thing with Sherlock the other day…No one should have to be afraid all the time, especially of their neighbor. I didn’t have that gun because I intended to hurt someone. Combat, you know how it is…habits form…” Sebastian held out the flowers, and she blushed, putting a hand to her mouth.

               “Oh, no!” her words made Sebastian’s heart sink, until she hurriedly continued, “No, I don’t mean ‘no’, I mean…thank you! I overreacted, though! It wasn’t fair-”

               “But you had a right to be afraid-” the sniper said slowly. If only she knew how right she’d been.

               “No,” she shook her head ashamedly, “I didn’t. I snapped at Sherlock and I stormed out on both of you. I jumped to conclusions and…it was wrong. I mean, the flowers look lovely,” she nodded slightly, as though urging herself on, “But I should be the one apologizing. I’m sorry-”

               “Woah, woah, woah,” Sebastian held up a hand, “I brought a _gun_ into your flat, and you’re the one who should be apologizing?”

               “Well, I alwa-”

               “You what? Always apologize?” Sebastian finished for her. He suddenly felt viciously protective of Molly. If Sherlock was cruel to _him_ , he couldn’t imagine how the younger Holmes would treat someone like Molly Hooper. “You shouldn’t. This was my fault. Here,” he pushed the flowers into her arms firmly, and she positively beamed at him.

               “Thank you,” she said quietly, “I’d invite you in, but I was just going to watch the new Glee…”

               Sebastian blinked. Wasn’t Glee that really gay show with the singing high school kids?

               “I love Glee,” he lied.

               “Oh,” Molly’s eyes seemed to light up, “Well, do you want to watch it with me?”

               There were about a thousand things Sebastian would rather do than watch Glee, but absolutely nothing sounded better to him at the moment than watching it _with Molly_. So what could he do, other than say yes?

               “Yeah, sure!”

               Smiling brightly, she stepped aside to let him in, smelling her flowers.

               “I can’t wait for Kurt and Blaine to get back together. They’re practically _made_ for each other, don’t you think?”

(o0o0o0o0)

               John stared blankly at his blog, seriously starting to consider throwing something at Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if the detective even was fully conscious of the fact that he was pacing like a madman, or if he cared that John noticed, but either way, the doctor had had enough.

               “Sherlock,” John glared at his flatmate, who continued to pace as though he hadn’t heard anything. The doctor cleared his throat rather loudly in an attempt to draw attention to himself, “Sherlock, you’re going to wear a hole through the floor. Quit pacing.”

               The detective continued to pace, and John’s concern only grew when he noticed that Sherlock’s lips were silently moving, forming mumbled words that were just barely audible if he listened closely enough.

               It didn’t take a genius to know what he was worked up about.

               Of course, it had been obvious over the past few days that Sherlock was getting worse. Or, that his situation with Moriarty was. He was restless and jittery and unusually jumpy; almost as wired as he’d been at Baskerville. It was sickening to the doctor that Moriarty could inspire the same fear within Sherlock that the Hound did. And, unfortunately, the detective was being just as secretive about his Soulmate as John was being about Mary. They’d barely spoken at all in the past 72 hours, and the distance was worrying John.

               He wanted to help. He wanted to be a good friend. He just didn’t know what to do other than hope Mycroft would catch Moriarty soon, despite the fact that Moran didn’t strike John as any more trustworthy than Mycroft himself, and probably wasn’t giving the most accurate information on Moriarty to begin with. Once the criminal was captured and under control, things could get back to normal. Or, as close to normal as was possible. John had a terrible hunch that enough damage had been done—to Sherlock’s reputation, to their relationships, and to Sherlock’s mind—to prevent things from ever being the same again.

               Well, fuck it. He wasn’t going to let this maniac torture them anymore. It was time to put his foot down. John got up, putting his laptop aside.

               “ _Sherlock!_ ”

               “ _What?”_ the detective spun around, looking, to John’s surprise, as though he was almost…irritated. John’s mouth fell open slightly as he struggled for words.

               _Come on, Watson. He’s your friend. You’ve known each other long enough that this should be easy._

But it wasn’t easy, and John would learn, as time came to pass, that the word ‘easy’ was an almost laughable one to apply to that which was the Holmes and Moriarty relationship.

               John cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders, “You’re pacing like a madman, Sherlock. You’re clearly on edge. You’re jittery, and nervous, and grumpy.”

               It was difficult to fathom why Sherlock was staring at him as though he was from another planet.

               “What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John asked feebly, “Just…I know I’ve been spending a lot of time out, but… _what are you muttering about_?”

               Sherlock shook his head quickly, as though to shake off a thought, “Sorry,” his brow furrowed, “What?”

               John felt like he was going to explode, “What. Is. Wrong? I know he’s torturing you. If you’d just tell me, then I’d be able to help!”

               It was hard to tell, since their flat was so badly lit, but John could have sworn that Sherlock blushed. Probably just a trick of the light. Why the _hell_ would he be blushing? What kinds of twisted things was Jim forcing into his mind?

               The detective studied him, looking genuinely perplexed. When he finally spoke, it was in a whisper that seemed to barely brush between his lips.

               “What game are you playing?”

               John blinked, now confused as well, “What?”

               Suddenly, an expression of horror dawned on Sherlock’s face, and in that moment, John realized what had just happened.

               Sherlock hadn’t been perplexed at _him_. He was perplexed about _Moriarty._

               “Are you… _talking to him_?” John gaped. This was the man who had _buried Mary alive._ He still felt slightly guilty, however, at how lost Sherlock seemed to look.

               The detective opened and closed his mouth a few times before starting, “John-”

               “You’re not still playing this…this _game_ , are you?” John was just as disappointed as he was shocked, “Sherlock, he wants you dead! He wants _all of us dead!_ He’d see London burn if Greg let-”

               “Oh, don’t talk about things you don’t understand,” Sherlock snapped, “Mycroft won’t ever catch him, anyway.”

               “Won’t ever-!” John was speechless, “It sounds like you don’t _want_ him to be caught! First you’re on about how he wouldn’t lie to you, then-”

               “That wasn’t,” Sherlock grumbled, starting to walk away, “What I said.”

               “Sherlock!” John scolded his friend, who was already shrugging into his coat and scarf, hiding himself from the world as he’d grown so accustomed to, “It’s freezing outside! Where are you-?”

               “To think,” the detective didn’t even look over his shoulder as he glided through the door, and John was two parts disheartened and pissed off as he called after him.

               “You know, for all the thinking you do, you sure are bloody stupid sometimes!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock, over the years, had found himself many hiding places throughout London. He knew which buildings were always empty, which corridors had just enough shadow to hide a man and just enough light to be safe. He had saved enough secret addresses and pathways that, had he ever needed to hide anything of value, it would have been lost to the world as completely as though he’d dropped it into the ocean.

               London was often like that; grey and wet like the ocean. After leaving 221B, Sherlock allowed himself to get swept away by a tide of people, and he soon found himself on top of none other than Bart’s Hospital.

               The rooftop had, somehow, ended up filed away with the rest of his hiding places. And, somehow, Sherlock’s feet had led him there, today.

               It was just as cold as John had said it would be. And yet, he found himself sinking to the ground, taking a seat on cool, dry bricks, dusted with snow.

               He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against a structure behind him, breathing in cold air. Jim must have been somewhere cold, as well, because Sherlock could feel every bite of the frigidity in his fingertips, rather than just as a secondary sensation, of sorts.

               He wasn’t quite sure _what_ he was doing. He wasn’t sure _why_ the bloody hell he was doing it, but he knew he wanted to do it, more than anything else at the moment.

               _Where were we?_

               Jim’s reply was instantaneous; not delayed as it would have been if they’d been texting or even talking face to face. His voice was soft in Sherlock’s head. Comforting, like a squeeze of the hand.

               Right. Focus.

               _You accidentally spoke to John._

               Sherlock offered no response but silent acknowledgement.

               _You’re outside, now,_ Jim continued to point out obvious facts.

               Sherlock wished Jim’s tone wasn’t always so even; so sure. He wished a shiver hadn’t physically just run through his body, and he wished he wasn’t so certain it wasn’t because of the cold.

               Jim offered no comment on this thought process, save for a foreign sort of almost…pleasant surprise, that Sherlock couldn’t place.

               He knew it made him feel strange. And he knew he was getting into a terrible habit of tracing his Mark whenever he thought like that about Jim.

               _The question still stands,_ Sherlock pushed, returning to their conversation they’d been having in the flat.

               Jim paused to think, and the detective watched as he considered each response, weighing Sherlock’s possible reactions and the risks of revealing too much weakness. It was fascinating.

               _I’m playing whatever game you are._

Sherlock remembered their most recent shared dream, and he _swore_ he could have felt Jim blush.

               _What does that have to do with anything?_ the criminal was defensive. Sherlock still hadn’t been able to access enough of Jim’s mind to discover why he seemed to be so terrified of being perceived as gay, but he knew that, whatever it was, it involved blood.

               _I hear everything you think_ , Sherlock’s claim was, he hoped, gentle, _You were thinking a few days ago about a new game. A new experiment._

Hesitance seemed to ice over their Bond, freezing Jim’s thoughts in their tracks. There was a considerable time gap before he formally spoke to Sherlock again.

               _…I don’t know what I was thinking._

Sherlock jumped at the bait, _How hard do you find it, having to say ‘I don’t know?’_

_Piss off._

There was another brief silence. Sherlock felt Jim’s mind close to his as he listened to traffic.

               _…It’s a welcome change,_ the criminal finally said. His voice was unlike Sherlock had ever heard it before.

               _Agreed._

 _Though you don’t seem entirely in the dark,_ Jim continued, confusing Sherlock, _You have a rather large memory of…_

He wasn’t able to say it, so the criminal simply ended up showing Sherlock a few of the memories they’d visited together a few days ago. Jim’s eyes, his voice, his hands…

               _You don’t have all that on me?_ the detective was mortified to find he was almost…hurt, by the idea.

               Oh, God, what was he thinking? What on Earth was he _doing?_

               If it was possible to smirk through thought, then that was Jim’s response. It was, once again, unlike anything Sherlock had seen from him before, strange and alien. There was nothing smug or mocking or arrogant in this expression, whatever it was. It was…almost _coy._

               _You know the answer already,_ Jim pointed out truthfully. Sherlock, to his shock, found that he _did._

               But the idea that somewhere deep in his mind, Jim Moriarty had thousands of thoughts of Sherlock stored like precious gems in a safe was…incomprehensible. Jim had thoughts of his eyes, his hair, probably other things that people supposedly liked. It was so _strange._

               A good kind of strange, Sherlock decided. A kind of strange that left him tracing his Mark again, stomach fluttering.

               There was another brief, contented silence. Then, quick as a flash, Sherlock saw himself. Rather, he saw himself through Jim’s eyes.

               His eyes were a color that seemed captivating to the criminal, who also seemed to have a slight fixation on his hair, for whatever reason. He thought it looked soft; wanted to run his fingers through it.

               Sherlock blushed, but didn’t look away.

               His lips were a beautiful, strange shape, and his voice a deep baritone that seemed to vibrate off the walls. He was unraveling puzzle after puzzle flawlessly and was _so much better_ than _everyone else…_

               The thoughts were pulled away and hidden again as quickly as they’d appeared, leaving Sherlock dazed. Jim didn’t formally say anything; he seemed to be awaiting a reaction. Although, the detective got the general sense that he wouldn’t be seeing anything more like that for quite a bit.

               How could Sherlock _respond_ to that?

               _You don’t have to say anything,_ Jim thought blankly.

               _So…the dreams?_

Jim’s silence said more than any words could have.

               _I think_ , the criminal slowly concluded, _we both know the answer to that question. If either of us loathed them as much as we claim to, they wouldn’t be happening in the first place._

Sherlock silently agreed.

               _Why bother acknowledging it?_ he inquired, suddenly cautious again.

               _Because it’s driving both of us mad. Better to have all our cards on the table, no?_

_I wasn’t aware we were still playing ‘cards’._

_Are we?_

_Are we?_ Sherlock echoed back.

               Jim knew the answer. It was as obvious as if he’d said it directly to Sherlock’s face, and yet, it was impossible to acknowledge directly. They both were closing their eyes to what was like a giant, neon ‘no’ in front of them, because if this wasn’t the game, then what was it?

               _Lestrade seems to have cleaned up your reputation quite a bit, down at Scotland Yard,_ Jim, to Sherlock’s surprise, changed the subject.

               _Didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on that._

_I haven’t gone out of my way._

_Are you going to ruin me again?_ Sherlock inquired. He wasn’t sure what kind of answer he expected.

               _Been there, done that. Sounds boring._

In spite of himself, the detective couldn’t stop a grin from spreading across his face.

               _People will think you mad,_ Jim pointed out dryly, _smiling to yourself like that._

Sherlock balked, _You can tell?_

 _Ah…_ Jim was suddenly embarrassed, _Yes. I can. Can’t you?_

Now that Sherlock thought about it, he always could. There were instances in which Jim’s end of the Bond had been strangely…warm, compared to its default of cool cynicism. He’d known at the time what it meant, it had just never _really_ registered that he’d been feeling Jim’s _happiness…_

               Actually, the fact that _Jim_ had been paying enough attention to notice what it felt like when Sherlock smiled was…quite flattering.

               The criminal didn’t seem eager to comment on this.

               _I most certainly can,_ Sherlock thought coolly.

               _Where are you? It’s fucking freezing._

_Ha! Nice try. Just because we’re done playing doesn’t mean I’m going to become an easy target._

Jim was mildly offended by the accusation, _I’m serious. Why aren’t you with John? It’s not as if I’ve given you any cases recently._

 _Not every case is yours,_ Sherlock thought evasively.

               _Every_ good _case is,_ Jim smirked.

               _Got it that time._

Jim was confused, _What?_

 _You just smirked,_ Sherlock suddenly wished he hadn’t said anything, but forced the words out regardless. Thankfully, Jim seemed to catch this, and acted accordingly, moving the conversation on smoothly.

               _Bravo. Excellent. Soon people may even stop thinking you’re a fake._

 _You could help them if you wanted,_ Sherlock thought cheekily, _I’m sure Lestrade would love to be the one to put you in chains._

 _Forget Lestrade. What about Big Brother Holmes?_ Jim pointed out.

               Sherlock nodded slightly before realizing Jim couldn’t see him, _So you know? About what he wants to do to you? To us?_

The word ‘us’ elicited a slight wince from the criminal, _Yes, of course I know._

 _…Will he be able to find you?_ Sherlock wished he wasn’t genuinely concerned.

               _Don’t worry on my behalf,_ the thought was like a ribbon of silk, drawn out and smooth, caressing Sherlock’s mind in a way that reminded him of Irene, _Mycroft is intelligent, but his arrogance is his downfall. You two are a bit similar in that way…_

Sherlock silently scoffed, _And you’re not arrogant?_

_When did I say that?_

_You implied it._

_No, you jumped to deductions,_ Jim was smiling again, _Another weakness you have. I never said I wasn’t arrogant. Most narcissists are. I’m just conceited enough to be cautious._

_So you’re more arrogant than Mycroft and I?_

_I assume so, given that I can’t even fathom your interaction with ordinary people. Isn’t that a sign of arrogance?_

_Not necessarily,_ Sherlock said gently. He disliked talking to most people, and he didn’t think that made _him_ arrogant. Granted, that wasn’t the same as generalizing everyone but oneself under the apparently condemning label of ‘ordinary’, but…

               _You’re on the rooftop,_ Jim’s observation shocked Sherlock into silence.

               _How did you-?_

_I just caught a flash. If you’re paying enough attention, sometimes you can see them. You’re aware of where you are, but not consciously thinking about it all the time. It’s there, if you want to see it._

Sherlock thought slowly, _You’ve been paying a lot of attention._

_Is that a problem?_

_No,_ the detective said truthfully, _It’s a surprise._

_…Why there?_

_I needed to think._

_Can’t do that at home? John bothering you?_

_Always, lately,_ Sherlock found himself getting slightly irritated just thinking about it, _But you knew that._

 _Just kick him out,_ Jim suggested, completely serious.

               _It’s not that simple._

_Why not?_

Sherlock thought for a moment, wondering if he could even articulate it properly to himself, let alone Jim, _Because he’s my friend. I can’t just ‘kick him out.’_

Jim was fascinated, _Why do you like him so much?_

Hm. Interesting question. Why _did_ he like John?

               _I don’t know. I just do. Why do you like Moran so much?_

 _What?_ the criminal seemed genuinely shocked.

               _I assumed the only reason you would keep an ignorant, incompetent child as your first in command was because you enjoyed his company,_ Sherlock explained, unsurprised at Jim’s outrage that soon followed.

               _If you’re suggesting that I harbor any sort of romantic-!_

_Not everything is romantic. No. Though I should have assumed that you’d keep your distance from even your most trusted employees. The only other explanation is…_

_Careful,_ Jim warned, suddenly watching Sherlock very closely.

               _…you’re desperate._

 _I_ was _desperate. Jo made the rooftop difficult. She’s taken care of now._

Sherlock felt a twinge of remorse for whoever the girl was. He couldn’t imagine Jim was pleasant when he was angry.

               _She deserved it,_ the criminal’s thoughts were now bitter and angry, and Sherlock was horrified at the scene that he saw flash through Jim’s mind: a small blonde woman was being thrown into a grave by Sebastian Moran as a circle of who could only be some of Jim’s subjugates stood around them and watched. Jim felt nothing as he watched her fall, saw the desperation in her eyes…

               That is, until he noticed Sherlock’s distress. Mild preoccupation twisted the Bond slightly.

               _She deserved it,_ Jim repeated, _She couldn’t be trusted. In my line of work, betrayal means death._

Sherlock couldn’t stop thinking about the poor woman’s face, _I thought you didn’t like getting your hands dirty._

 _I had to protect myself!_ Jim was getting progressively more upset.

               _You could have done so without doing that,_ Sherlock said quietly, _Even if you’d still killed her._

Jim sulked. It was easy for someone like _Sherlock_ to talk like that.

               _Always the noble one, Sherlock Holmes,_ the criminal scoffed.

               _God no,_ Sherlock denied, _Not noble._

               And it was the truth. Though he supposed that he was a little bit less bitter than Jim; a little less afraid. They were quite similar, they just…dealt with things differently.

               _Not a psychopath?_ Jim was clearly teasing, but the joke was lined with razors. He was still on edge.

               _No,_ Sherlock opened his eyes, tracing over his Mark again. It matched the grey London skyline flawlessly; a pleasant accent to what would otherwise have been slightly more drab.

               _Oh, don’t do that,_ Jim moaned, and Sherlock found himself smirking again.

               _Do what?_

 _Whatever you’re doing now. Stop it._ Fear was starting to find its way into Jim’s thoughts again, and Sherlock found himself determined to quell it.

               After all, he was just as afraid as the criminal was. Maybe of different things, but afraid nonetheless. His thoughts wandered off on a tangent, and he suddenly found himself thinking of the night they’d kissed.

               _I mean it._

 _We’d both be thinking of it even if we didn’t openly acknowledge it,_ Sherlock rolled his eyes, _Simply thinking doesn’t mean anything._

 _Did you ever consider,_ Jim sounded like he was bordering on hysteria, _that perhaps I don’t_ want _to think about it?_

_We’ve already both openly admitted we want to._

The criminal didn’t have a response readily available for that. Eventually, he found his voice through someone else’s.

               _Evil starts at fifteen volts._

The quote was pretty, Sherlock had to admit, though he hadn’t the faintest clue who it was by.

               _It’s unimportant who it’s by,_ Jim persisted, _The meaning stands._

 _Do you think this is evil?_ Sherlock asked softly.

               The criminal scoffed again, _What is ‘this’?_

_You know what ‘this’ is!_

Of course Jim knew. Of course they both knew. They both knew so much it physically _hurt._ Sherlock could feel it in the criminal’s stomach that he wasn’t lacking even the slightest awareness about what was happening to them.

               _I won’t say it if you won’t,_ Jim declared.

               It was romance. Of course it bloody was. They both felt towards each other how John felt towards his girlfriends, how Sherlock had felt towards Irene, how Molly felt towards Sherlock. It was _romance, romance, romance_. Jim wanted to run his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and Sherlock wanted to kiss Jim’s mouth until it was bruised. He wanted to lace their palms together and stare into brown eyes and _God_ , he was in too deep.

               And, he wasn’t sure at what point it had happened, but Sherlock was starting to realize that he really enjoyed the Bond. He wanted to forever live inside Jim’s mind. He _liked_ having a companion; not being isolated because he was too quick witted for everyone else. Staying side by side mentally with Jim wasn’t a maddening or frightening idea anymore…it was comforting.

               But he couldn’t say any of that. Because Sherlock was _terrified_ of _‘this’._ He was shamefully frightened and because of it all he could say in response to Jim was:

               _Fine._

Sherlock stood up, deciding that he shouldn’t loiter up here too long. It was getting cold, and it might be better for Jim if he warmed up.

               _Well, don’t move on_ my _behalf!_ Jim snapped, not doing anything to stop the detective from making his way back inside.

               _I don’t want to have to listen to you complain about the cold,_ Sherlock wished he could have believed his own excuse. In reality, he just didn’t want Jim to be cold, and this was blatantly obvious to the criminal.

               _Don’t think because of this that your friends are any safer!_

_Mm hm._

_Holmes!_

_I can feel that, you know,_ Sherlock smirked, just a tiny quirk of the lips, making his way into one of the main hospital hallways.

               Jim was shocked into silence by the callout, and Sherlock was grateful, because now he could enjoy the pleasant light feeling in both his and Jim’s stomachs in peace and quiet.

               Whatever ‘this’ was…he was liking it so far.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at this. They’re all twitterpated. And Sherlock would certainly love to stare into Jim’s Bambi eyes for hours if he could. Leave me your thoughts? I’ll see you all hopefully soon! Think romantical thoughts! Jim and Sherl, Sherl and Jim, both of them togetheeeerrrrrrr...


	25. Reflector

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is breaking me.

               Jim’s reflection stared back at him, eyes shining a muddy brown in the yellow light from the lamp next to him.

               Sherlock thought they were nice. Sherlock thought _his_ _eyes_ were nice. _Why_ , Jim still could not fathom.

               There was silent agreement from the detective’s side of the Bond, and Jim frowned.

               _I didn’t ask you._

 _You were thinking about my opinion anyway,_ Sherlock snipped back, and the criminal quickly stifled the smile that was trying to twist its way onto his face.

               He hated that. How Sherlock could affect him in that way. And yet, he kept coming back for more and more.

               Another 48 hours had gone by, and Jim couldn’t recall a single one of them he’d spent without the detective. Of course, they hadn’t _physically_ been together, but this somehow still felt…intimate. It was companionship, 24 hours a day. Sherlock’s conscious was always there, sitting side by side with his own, and it was incredibly strange, but…not undesirable. Not by a long shot.

               Now that they weren’t pushing each other away, it was pleasant having a companion. Not stifling, not irritating, and Jim certainly didn’t feel _pressured._

               On the contrary, he felt…oddly content.

               Jim knew he was falling into the exact trap he’d avoided like the plague for his entire life. He was completely backed into a corner, and _every variable_ was against it, but he couldn’t _stop_ falling. If it had been _anyone else_ , the very notion would have been aborted before it had even been a complete concept. But this was Sherlock. And Sherlock was different. He was _extraordinary._

               And _God,_ he had to surrender, didn’t he? Sherlock didn’t care if there was anything wrong with him. He was willing to take Jim simply as he was, and…it had always been that way. Moreover, Jim was willing, if with anyone, to try this with Sherlock.

               Whatever ‘this’, was. It wasn’t as if he had anything to lose anymore. The game was over.

               A memory tried to push itself to the forefront of Jim’s mind, and he quickly pushed it away before Sherlock could see, leaving only a phantom taste of blood in his mouth. It made him tug his suit down harshly, perhaps a little more so than he should have. This _was_ Westwood, after all.

               For what must have been the hundredth time, the criminal looked himself over in the mirror. Suit fitted as well as it ever would; Jim hated calling anything perfect, as there was _always_ room for a little more improvement. His hair was slicked back and combed, not a strand out of place. _Fuck_ , he hated his eyes. Frog eyes, that’s what they were.

               Jim hardened his gaze. No. He was not going to think about _that_ tonight. The people who had planted that idea into his mind were ordinary, and those memories belonged in the dustiest corner of his psyche he could find. Of course, he would have preferred to bleach them from his memory forever, but they served a purpose: a reminder not to show weakness. In fact, they were a perfect reason for _not_ going to see Sherlock tonight.

               The detective didn’t comment, just continued to work on his experiment and _oddly_ dwell on the fact that John wasn’t home.

               _Fuck._ This was why he hated Sherlock. He _hated_ Sherlock Holmes. Yes, more than anything. He shouldn’t go see the detective today. _God,_ what about the last few times he’d seen Sherlock? He’d looked such a fool. He’d been soaked in mud and rain one time, and completely _naked_ and uninhibited the second time. Why the detective still had any interest in him at all, he still hadn’t the faintest clue. In fact, Jim was still figuring out why he still bothered with Sherlock. The detective had everything he needed to…become like every ordinary person the criminal had ever hated. He knew far too much. Jim felt like he needed to arrange a hit. Something to remind the world that he was _dangerous._ Reinforce the invincible persona he _wanted_ to be remembered by. He’d rather be considered a bloodthirsty madman than a weak fa-

               _I’m trying to work,_ Sherlock scolded, stopping Jim’s tirade and calming the criminal’s pulse ever so slightly.

               After a moment of silence, another thought from the detective followed.

               _Thank you._

               That was it, then. Jim was going to 221B today. If Sherlock was _apologizing_ , things were fucked up enough that a little more foolishness wouldn’t hurt.

               After all, nothing really mattered anymore.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock heard Jim coming before he saw him, and as much as he attempted to force himself to keep working, to keep his eyes on tiny measurements of beakers and notes scrawled on papers strewn across what little counter space he could find…the criminal was all he could possibly hope to think about.

               Déjà vu would be a severe understatement of the feeling the familiar creak of the stairs gave him. Jim remembered where he _needed_ to step, obviously. If he’d wanted to, he never would have made a sound. This was tradition. It was courtesy. Almost a greeting, of sorts.

               It was strange; they’d been speaking openly only minutes before, and yet both consultants now felt a compulsive need to remain silent. One word would ruin this…whatever ‘this’ was.

               Jim was mildly amused, but still formally said nothing. He was enjoying their new inside joke.

               Inside joke. He had an _inside joke_ with Jim Moriarty. What had the world come to?

               Sherlock shook his head, forcing the criminal as far out of his mind’s eye as he could. Right. Carbon levels. Oh, God, what was Carbon? He couldn’t think, couldn’t think…

               The door opened. Jim was far less dramatic than he’d been the last time. Or, Sherlock should say, the last two times. Though he wasn’t very enthusiastic to acknowledge the most recent encounter they’d had predating this one. He would prefer to keep his clothing _on_ , this time.

               An image flashed in Sherlock’s mind’s eye, and he hurriedly deleted it, flustered.

               The criminal’s footsteps were calculated; as silent as the grave. He was still unsure about this meeting. Good. They were in the same boat then.

               Sherlock froze, remembering the last time he’d said those exact words, on top of Jim, punctuated by kisses.

               It was obvious Jim was going to speak before he finally did. Sherlock could have counted down the seconds to when the words left his lips, he could have measured the exact tone of the criminal’s voice, how his vocal cords reverberated with each word.

               “May I?” Jim asked softly, examining the room as though he’d never seen it before. It was so strange to hear his voice in person that Sherlock was completely and utterly frozen for a moment, just taking in the fact that the criminal was right in front of him, in the flesh, speaking in just as lilted a voice as he always had.

               The detective blinked, wishing that he could trade his current self for who he’d been the first time they’d had tea together. It wasn’t fair that _then_ , his heartbeat had not only been normal, but Jim also hadn’t been able to hear it.

               “…Yes…” he said slowly, watching Jim carefully. He needed to remember; this was the man who’d strapped a bomb to John, who’d tried to ruin _him._ He needed to keep himself under control.

               Oh, but damn control. He needed this. He needed Jim. And here Jim was, in his favorite navy Westwood, his hair slicked back as flawlessly as ever, a delicious shadow across his jawline. It was beginning to dawn on Sherlock just _how_ far gone he was. But this had been a long time in the making, hadn’t it? Damned hormones.

               _I’m not sure what you’re asking permission for,_ the detective continued, and his heart nearly stopped when Jim turned his eyes to Sherlock.

               “We can talk aloud now,” he said matter of factly, “I don’t suppose you have any apples?” the criminal turned away again, arms crossed as he examined the room.

               Sherlock watched him, only allowing himself one full body glance, just out of curiosity, “There are fingers in the fridge.” He was well aware that his words were hyper punctuated; far too calculated for a casual situation. _Was_ this casual?

               _You think too much,_ the thought was barely a wisp of smoke, but Sherlock caught it nonetheless, just as he caught Jim’s toothy smirk from across the room, tugging up at one corner of his mouth for a fraction of a second before disappearing again. It was difficult to tell if he’d wanted Sherlock to see it or not. The criminal continued to study the room, expertly navigating around books strewn on the floor and papers half hanging off of tables.

               It struck Sherlock that Jim was also hyper calculating _everything._

               _As do you,_ the detective countered. Admittedly, they overthought different things. The only thing they had in common there was each other.

               And what did that say?

               Jim’s back was to him now, and he was getting dangerously close to where Sherlock _knew_ he had hand penned sheet music lying. It appeared that the criminal knew this very well.

               “Don’t mind me,” Jim picked up a sheet gingerly, _very_ aware that Sherlock’s eyes were on him, “I know you’re trying to work.”

               The detective huffed a little too loudly. How the _hell_ was he supposed to do experiments with Jim here? Wasn’t ‘this’ whole thing an experiment in itself?

               If he’d expected a response from Jim, he got none. The criminal was silently reading over his sheet music, a statue in the corner.

               _They’ll see you through the window,_ Sherlock pointed out.

               Jim took a step back, and the detective listened to the quiet noise his clothes made when they moved together.

               _Sherlock,_ the criminal ordered smoothly, _just go back to what you were working on._

Sherlock found himself letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, some of the nerves finally settling themselves. Right. He was…what had John called it? Wired. Carbon was what was important right now.

               He jotted down some measurements, and took great joy in the way that Jim listened to his pencil scratching across the paper. And, if that wasn’t enough to make him giddy, the fact that Jim _actually_ could make neither heads nor tails of the music notes certainly was.

               “You can’t read sheet music?” Sherlock asked, forcing his eyes to remain on the beaker in front of him when Jim turned to him, opening his mouth slowly to speak.

               “…Does that surprise you?”

               The detective thought for a moment.

_…No. Not really. Your knowledge is practical. You only know things that help you in your work._

_Like you._

_Yes,_ Sherlock kept his response simple, deciding it was better not to point out that he knew very well that Jim had only looked at the sheet because his hands had been on it so much.

               “…I can hear that, you know,” Jim pointed out. Sherlock fought to keep his eyes on the experiment. Or, rather, the less intriguing experiment. The less dangerous one.

               Sherlock licked his lips, “I can hear you, too.” Dammit. He had _not_ intended for his voice to escape him that way. A hoarse, sultry whisper sent a message he wasn’t certain he wanted to send to Jim Moriarty.

               It was disturbing that he merely wasn’t _certain_.

               “Always,” the word left a ringing silence behind it, one that Jim felt pressured to fill, “Unfortunately.”

               When Sherlock finally turned to look at him, the criminal’s eyes were glinting. He was studying, calculating. Always.

               They stared at one another for a moment. Sherlock was aware that Jim was watching his chest rise and fall. Jim knew that Sherlock was aware. They both _knew_. And, because of that, Jim turned away, feigning interest in their mantle and setting the sheet music down.

               “Haven’t you done this all before?” Sherlock asked, deciding that he was _never_ going to finish this experiment. Or rather, the less interesting one. “I saw the video on John’s blog. Your little visit. You had plenty of time to study my living space. And without me staring at you the whole time.”

               Jim’s stomach did something strange, though his voice remained cool and collected, “You’re not even trying to hide it.”

               It was blatantly obvious that they both knew what ‘it’ was, but Sherlock decided, for both of their sakes, that he would play dumb.

               “Hide what?”

               Jim sighed, “Is that hard?”

               Sherlock frowned, “What?”

               “Pretending to be stupid. Though I suppose you must be used to it. Tell me the story behind one of these,” he nodded at the various trinkets that littered the mantelpiece over the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back.

               “Take your coat off, first,” Sherlock wasn’t certain what made him say it, all he knew was that the way Jim looked at him afterwards made his face flush red.

               The action was _so_ bloody domestic. Like Jim belonged there. Like he lived there. And that made it suddenly daunting to the criminal. Jim bit his lip.

               “I wasn’t aware I was staying so long,” Jim’s eyes were wide and dark, still difficult for Sherlock to read. That look could mean surprise or reluctance. Or both.

               _You don’t have to,_ Sherlock struggled for words, “It was a suggestion.”

               Jim’s eyes darted across Sherlock’s face another moment before ever so slowly shrugging his jacket off and draping it gently over the back of what was usually John’s chair. The detective instantly committed the entire action to memory, each centimeter of movement just as important as the next.

Sherlock blinked, wondering if he did that enough times, it would make the warm feeling in his chest go away. He still wasn’t sure whether he liked feeling lightheaded whenever he was around Jim, and how much of it was his own feelings versus the criminal’s.

               Suddenly, Jim was just as crackling with nervous electricity as Sherlock was. The thought of the detective watching him undress in any way shape or form, no matter how much modesty he retained, was suddenly enough to steal the oxygen from his lungs.

               “I’d still like a story,” he snapped, wincing inwardly at how his voice sounded, “Tell me…” Jim’s eyes wandered a moment, “… about your skull.” He nodded curtly at the piece in question. Sherlock reminded himself to focus on _what_ Jim was saying, rather than how his jawline looked as he said it.

               _Stop thinking that way,_ very quickly, the criminal was starting to feel overwhelmed, _You’re embarrassing the both of us._

Sherlock flushed, even more self conscious as he did so. Of course, he needed to remind himself that he and Jim were the equivalent of business rivals. He needed to retain his professionalism, right?

               With a clink of finality, he set his beaker down, “Molly gave it to me. Morgue girl. You dated her. Office romance,” the detective allowed a teasing smirk to quirk his lips up for a moment, “It makes for a nice companion, when John isn’t around.”

               Jim nodded slowly, eyes distant.

               “I prefer _not_ to know the man whose skull I keep on my wall,” the detective forced his voice to remain level, as though he were giving a lecture. It was difficult, because no matter how much he wanted to appear as cryptic as usual for the criminal, his body seemed to have other ideas. He couldn’t _focus._

                It was annoying.

                Jim’s gaze slowly turned from the skull to him, “That sounds boring,” he murmured.

               Sherlock’s stomach twisted. Of course, Jim still missed the game. The detective had known for quite a time that the criminal had possessed a death wish, so why was it so difficult to hear now?

               Actually, he knew why. He’d never thought of it because he’d been too busy speculating about whether or not Jim was a psychopath. He’d been trying to figure out the criminal’s schemes and had missed so much that it made him quite uncomfortable.

               _Likewise,_ Jim agreed, apparently not eager to discuss this topic, either. His brown eyes met Sherlock’s, and the detective bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to stop a shiver from running down his spine.

               _Get ahold of yourself._

               Sherlock hated how Jim’s words hurt. What the bloody hell had he expected? And why was the criminal feeling that slight twinge of _guilt_ again?

               He hypothesized that it was ‘this’ again. Fantastic.

               The detective stole a glance towards Jim again to find him staring at the experiment currently spread out on the counter. He opened his mouth to explain, but the criminal silently halted the words in his throat.

               _I’m a quick learner. I’ll pick it up._

               It took a few seconds to process what Jim was actually asking of him, but once it occurred to him, it brightened his mood considerably.

               A part of him felt like he was showing off, but…there Jim was, leaning against the wall behind him…to _watch him work._ The criminal’s words from the rooftop echoed in his mind. Genius needed an audience, and Jim was as enthusiastic an observer as he’d get.

               So, Sherlock did the only thing he could. He went to work, falling into the rhythm of the experiment as easily as, he assumed, falling asleep was for most people. It was odd how quickly he grew accustomed to Jim’s presence; the criminal’s watchful gaze seemed no more out of place to him than clothing did on his skin. Of course, he _felt_ it, but he supposed his senses had just adapted over the past few days to make him used to it.

               This lack of awareness was a liability, Sherlock knew. He’d have been much more eager to fix it if he hadn’t grown to enjoy his mental companion so much. Where he was bustling with energy, Jim was cautious and methodical, and it was…almost pleasant to have someone holding his feet to the ground.

               The only downside to Jim’s presence, besides the obvious threat that _somehow_ he was playing Sherlock, was the constant need buzzing through the detective’s veins. His Mark was _tingling_ with want, and nothing would sooth it, Sherlock knew, besides contact with Jim’s. There was energy crackling in the air between the two consultants, and they _both_ were aware of what it meant. It had been so long since they’d seen one another that their hormones seemed to be acting up once more, and Sherlock was slightly jittery at the thought of getting as close to Jim again as he had last time.

               Not opposed. Just…cautious.

               Sherlock continued to work, pushing thoughts of Jim into another corner of his mind entirely, where they continued to multiply of their own will, every once in a while escaping the barriers he’d set to interfere with a calculation or a deduction. Despite this annoyance, he eventually had nothing more to do, and, setting the fingers he’d been working with aside, he straightened his back, not sure whether Jim wanted him to continue working, to move on to something else.

               “Don’t stop.”

               Sherlock turned around to find brown eyes glittering at him.

               _Adoration._

               _What?_ Jim blinked, brow furrowing.

               “Ah, sorry,” Sherlock wanted to slap himself, “I-”

               - _was thinking out loud,_ the criminal finished.

Sherlock huffed at the comment, not sure if it was entirely possible that Jim was actually _teasing_ him.

               The criminal licked his lips, and goosebumps raised on Sherlock’s arms, _dammit._ He was foolish for hoping, just for a moment, that it would escape Jim’s notice.

His reaction, however, was not in a thousand years what Sherlock would have expected. The overwhelming emotional response to the flustered, nervous detective was… amusement.

               At first, Sherlock wasn’t sure he was reading the feeling correctly, but there it was, zero malice behind it, none of the mocking sarcasm he’d seen on the rooftop. No, this was…warmth. And, to go along with the light feeling quickly spreading from just the detective’s abdomen to every inch of his body, was a devilish smirk materializing on Jim’s face.

               If he hadn’t been able to read the criminal’s mind, Sherlock was ashamed to admit he would have gotten an entirely different message from the expression. Knowing that, at least this time, there was nothing malicious behind it was almost disturbing. _How_ could Jim Moriarty _actually_ be acting like this? Was there something he was missing? For the criminal to be gleeful about something so simple as Sherlock’s reluctant sentiment was so unbelievable that the detective was tempted to check whether or not something was on fire behind him.

               Jim made a strange noise, and Sherlock started, only realizing as the criminal looked away, trying to compose himself, what had happened.

               …Had Jim Moriarty just _laughed?_

Sherlock would never have believed it, not in a thousand years. Not unless the criminal was using it to terrify a subordinate or a client. But he could sense nothing but pure _mirth_ bubbling up inside Jim, threatening to spill over.

               Completely of its own accord, a smirk crept its way onto the detective’s face. Their combined amusement proved to be too much for the criminal, who finally let a chuckle escape him. It was a rattling sound, like the bones of a skeleton long dried from years baking in the sun.

               Unsure of whether it was rude or not, and not particularly caring, Sherlock could do nothing other than stare at Jim, mouth slightly agape. The criminal started to shake with laughter.

               “What…?” Sherlock’s expression was caught between an alarmed yet amused smile and a confused frown. A tiny prick of fear went through the Jim’s side of the Bond, but not before it was overrode by laughter again.

               Jim stuffed a fist in his mouth, still choking back the last of his chuckles. He refused to look at Sherlock when he next spoke, and the detective had a hunch it was because he was well aware of the uncharacteristic glow of his gaze.

               “I, ah…” the Irishman shook his head, crossing his arms, and soon forced to bite back another laugh, “You just…” he gestured vaguely, “You’re a little wired, Sherlock.”

               Sherlock frowned, “Am not,” he argued. Jim finally met his eyes and snorted loudly.

               “Yes,” he positively _beamed_ at the detective, who felt himself go red, “You are.” _You’re doing it now._

_It’s hardly my fault!_

Jim’s mouth was starting to hurt from so much smiling, “Oh,” he nodded sarcastically, “So this is my doing, then?”

               Sherlock was incredulous, but _he_ was almost starting to laugh, “Yes! You keep doing your…those…” he gestured obscurely, though Jim knew exactly what he was referring to.

               _My devilish good looks and charm?_  

               The detective was completely speechless. Apparently this was enough of an answer for Jim, who Sherlock now feared was going to break a rib.

               Actually, Sherlock had bigger problems, because, thanks to their _oh so convenient_ Bond, he was starting to feel exactly as Jim did. Giggles seemed to fill his throat, and he bit his lip, as though this would remedy the problem.         

               _Stop,_ he pleaded in a last ditch attempt to stifle this little moment before it turned into something more significant.

               Jim was, underneath his amusement, no more confident about this than Sherlock was, but the sad truth was that temptation was, in that moment, too much for either consultant to retain their self control.

               They both dissolved into giggles, Sherlock’s baritone a contrast and a compliment to Jim’s cackle.

               “Wait,” Jim laughed, taking a step closer to where Sherlock stood, “Stop,” another chuckle escaped him, “Why…?”

               The detective snorted loudly, and soon they were both doubled over, laughing harder than ever at _everything._ The sheer ridiculousness of their situation was, quite frankly, too much _not_ to laugh at. The police’s greatest detective and the world’s most dangerous criminal were _Soulmates_ , arguing over music notes and sharing erotic dreams together. Part of it was nerves, he assumed, but that didn’t matter, because _this_ was, in actuality, _hilarious._ Sherlock stopped trying to fight it—though he worried that, with both of their emotions mixing, they would _never_ be able to stop. How long were they going to stand here and laugh, alone in the kitchen together?

               _Bet you Mycroft never thought of that one,_ Jim thought snidely. Sherlock was forced to grab the countertop for support, his abs were hurting so badly.

               “We should stop,” the detective gasped, straightening up to see Jim doubled over next to him, also leaning on the counter. He was still debilitated by laughter, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

               Sherlock made a point of committing that image to memory. Oh, God, that was his favorite one yet. And why was that? This had absolutely nothing to do with mental prowess or any sort of cunning—nothing that he’d felt attracted to before.  

               Instead of a verbal or mental answer, Jim settled for a weak nod, still gasping, though his energy was finally waning. The pain in Sherlock’s abdomen was finally relieved, though every once in a while when a chuckle would struggle its way free, it would be renewed again.

               The two consultants stood there for a few moments as the very last of their laughter drained from them. Jim seemed to regain full sobriety first, though he didn’t seem to plan on using it to speak to Sherlock.

               The criminal just stayed there, alternating between looking at his fingers and the wall ahead of them. It was suddenly evident how very close they were to one another. Sherlock could feel Jim’s body heat next to him just as much as he would have felt an actual touch of the hand.

               Sherlock’s heart seemed to have been lifted again, though for entirely different reasons, this time, he hypothesized.

               It suddenly occurred to the detective that he had, at some point, begun staring at Jim. Whether the criminal simply hadn’t noticed or just liked being watched was up to interpretation.

               Of course, Sherlock knew just as well as the criminal which of the two it was. The smiles had completely vanished from both of their faces, to be replaced with something much more difficult to read. The detective was very grateful, in that moment, that he had the Bond to help him know what Jim was thinking.

               It still was quite difficult to believe, however, that the singular, all-encompassing thought in Jim’s mind, when he turned to look at Sherlock, was real.

               Both of them straightened up slowly, eyes not leaving one another’s.

               _Are you suggesting…?_ Sherlock wanted to clarify, but his thoughts trailed off into nothingless when Jim did nothing but breathe in response. He knew what they both wanted. _They_ knew what they wanted.

               The detective wet his lips, eyes still not leaving Jim’s. Despite having done it before, and done it before with the criminal, he was unsure of how to go about this.

               But Jim was still waiting there with a heavily lidded gaze, watching him, heart beating even louder than Sherlock’s in the suddenly very quiet room.

               Slowly, carefully, brow still furrowed with the astonishment that they were _actually_ doing this, Sherlock leaned in.

               He wasn’t sure when exactly Jim started to lean; he’d closed his eyes without thinking (assumedly due to some base instinct) after they seemed to make the mutual decision. All he knew was that, at some point, before their lips could meet, a door opened, freezing them both inches apart.

               It was impossible not to recognize John’s gasp of astonishment.

(o0o0o0o0)

             John felt like he’d just dunked his head in ice water. The air seemed to be crushed from his lungs, and he let it out in a little gasp, unfortunately loud enough for Sherlock _and Moriarty_ to hear.

            He couldn’t believe his eyes. There in front of him, eyes closed, lips not even centimeters apart, were the detective and the criminal. That _seemed_ to suggest that they had been about to kiss, before he’d barged in, but…

            How could that _be_?

            His first instinct was to grab Moriarty by the collar and punch. As long as he was around Sherlock and all the rest of them were in danger. _Especially_ Mary, who was just downstairs. It seemed like the criminal should be able to sense her so close, but that was impossible. Moriarty was human, as difficult as that was to believe.

            And he knew what he _should_ do. He should have knocked Jim out right then and there to turn in to Mycroft, so they could get back to their lives. Maybe ‘accidentally’ broken his nose or a few minor bones along the way. But the doctor quickly scrapped this heroic idea.

            Sherlock wasn’t stupid; hadn’t he been yelling at John non-stop over the past week about his control over the situation? That he didn’t _want_ to go along with Mycroft’s plan? Maybe it was time John listened. Wasn’t it his job to honor his friend’s wishes? But then, if it was a self mutilating mindset, that wasn’t something he wanted to assist in. To the untrained eye, the two were in extremely close proximity and Sherlock had his eyes closed; a vulnerability. It was hard not to wince at the fact that the man who’d strapped him to Semtex was just inches away from his best friend.

            What if they’d been kissing? What then?

             “…Sherlock…?” John’s voice left him in a stutter. He was afraid of what might happen if he spoke any more quickly, without weighing his words first. God, they were _close…_

            The detective pressed his lips together, slowly pulling away from Jim, who backed off equally hesitantly.

 _Maybe they’d been fighting?_ John theorized. Moriarty did seem to have a tendency to get up in people’s personal space when he was angry, if the pool was any indication.

            John felt slightly awkward when Sherlock still didn’t so much as look at him. He had eyes only for Moriarty. Perhaps they were talking silently? Bond stuff?

           “Ahem,” John cleared his throat, “Yeah. Still here. Do I need to call the police? Sherlock?”

            Something about his words, for whatever reason, seemed to spring Moriarty into action. He spun around so quickly that it startled John, who couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from the criminal’s almost black eyes when they met his.

            There was a challenge in that gaze. Challenge and a hint of…irritation.

            Sherlock licked his lips, starting to follow Jim, “J-” he started to say, only to be cut off and frozen in his tracks by the criminal, who was no longer looking at either of them.

            “I was just leaving, Doctor Watson,” Jim’s accent was heavy as he shrugged his coat on. John blinked, slightly amazed to see the criminal doing something so bloody _normal_.

             Whatever this was, John thought, it was not going to be anything he’d be happy to hear about.

             Jim looked back at Sherlock one last time as he stepped through the door, and his gaze was so shockingly human that John’s jaw dropped open slightly. There were a thousand emotions he could have attributed to that kind of a look, but it was so gut wrenchingly sad that the only word that came to mind was _pining._

              But that couldn’t be right. Obviously, the Bond could create intense emotions between a pair, but to see this sort of thing from _Moriarty…_

              It was unbelievable.

              John turned to Sherlock, who was still staring after the criminal with an expression that matched the criminal’s. He watched the detective’s chest rising and falling, and finally, he realized he couldn’t tiptoe around this.

             “Were…” the doctor glanced from Sherlock to the kitchen, “Were you two about to…?”

              The detective offered no comment. Typical.

              “Sherlock,” John raised his voice slightly, “I understand you’re thinking, but do you mind explaining to me why there was a bloody _serial killer_ in our flat just now?”

               Sherlock finally turned to John, “It was an experiment.”

               John laughed, “An _experiment_? It looked like you two were about to bloody kiss—you know he strapped me to a bomb, right? Do you _remember_ —?” he stopped himself midsentence. No. What he and Sherlock needed right now was not another fight. “Right. Sorry. Was that…? What was that?”

               It was impossible to say if Sherlock had ever looked quite so uncomfortable as he did at that moment. When he finally spoke, it was with the air of someone delivering news of a death, “John, I’ve tried to be frank about this…” he trailed off, looking away.

               The doctor couldn’t believe his ears, “You don’t,” he shook his head, “You don’t _actually_ -?”

               Sherlock bit his lip, looking more than a little helpless, “It appears so.”

               “And _he_ also-?”

               “Quite,” the detective put extra emphasis on the ‘t’.

               “Is this just the Bond? Is it the hormones-?” John knew he was grasping at straws, but the question seemed to make Sherlock genuinely think. After a moment of indecision, he answered.

               “I felt sober.”

               John worried his jaw was going to unhinge, “So you and Moriarty-?”

               “Oh for _God’s sake_ , John!” Sherlock exclaimed, stalking over to his chair and throwing himself down in it, “He’s _interesting_. I hear his thoughts twenty four hours a day. Don’t you think you’d grow fond of someone in the same situation?”

               “ _Interesting?_ ” John repeated the word in disbelief, “He’s a serial-! Well, actually, that bit isn’t what surprises me. But you _actually_ feel something for him? After all he’s done?”

               “John, there are things I’ve done that would make you forget all about the heads in our fridge,” Sherlock said darkly.

               “Oh, for the love of God,” John complained, “Don’t start with this dark fuck prince act. I’ve lived with you for over a year, and I _know you_ , Sherlock! You’re a drama queen. Don’t try to excuse Moriarty just because-”

               When the doctor cut himself off again, the room seemed to get very quiet. Sherlock threw his head back, sighing loudly.

               “Because what?” he inquired, somewhat reluctantly.

               John struggled to find words for a moment, before he decided that whatever he said was going to mean absolutely nothing, anyway. Because when he looked at Sherlock, exasperated and out of his element, all he could think of was Irene Adler.

               _He actually loves him. He loves Moriarty._

Well, maybe ‘love’ was presumptuous. John would much rather that whatever the two were doing had nothing to do with love.

               Then again…if Jim was _somehow_ infatuated enough to stop hurting people, then what harm was done? Obviously, it would never happen, not in a thousand lifetimes. But any version or fraction of that they could get would be helpful. If instead of killing Sherlock, the criminal wanted to love him…what was wrong with that?

               John shook his head. There were _countless_ things wrong with this. He still had difficulty imagining Moriarty giving genuine affection to anyone, much less someone as inexperienced as Sherlock. On the other hand, he supposed they were both rather intelligent. They’d never run out of bloody brilliant things to talk about.

               The doctor was torn between making his best friend’s life bearable, and protecting Mary. How could he make that choice? Both of them trusted him with their lives.

               He sighed deeply, sitting down across from Sherlock, resigned. The detective seemed to be surprised by this, and straightened up to study him.

               Before he could say anything, John spoke.

               “I knew,” he sighed again, “That with a Bond as strong as yours was, that there was a possibility. And even though I’m still not sure he’s not just manipulating you, or trying to pull off some other grand scheme, you’re the smart one. Even though you can be a bloody idiot sometimes.”

               Sherlock stared.

               “Just…promise me this isn’t just for the game.”

               The detective’s breaths were finally steady, “This is a new game.”

               John wasn’t sure whether to be reassured or not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh snap. John knows about 'this'. Jim is probably internally imploding, and Sebastian is…somewhere pretending to like Glee with Molly (WHICH IS ENDING FOREVER ON A COMPLETELY SEPARATE NOTE). Wonder how that’s going. OH, and if you noticed my cute little ironic reference, you get a gold star. If you review, however, you get a THOUSAND gold stars. Still less than the stars in Jim and Sherlock’s eyes, though ^_^


	26. Ablation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before this chapter starts I just want to warn you that I am trash and in a few seconds you’re going to realize why. My only advice is don’t fight it and please don’t beat me up and throw me in a locker. 
> 
> Don’t fight it. Ahem: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GoDj7PumWM0 
> 
> Ya know, so you have ambiance for the first scene.

               Sebastian grabbed a handful of popcorn, eyes fixed on the screen, “I mean,” he started, popping a piece into his mouth, “I get that they’re trying to include everyone, but this is just too much.”

               Next to him on the couch, Molly nodded, “It does take a bit from the overall effect, doesn’t it?”

               “Well like,” he ate another piece of popcorn, ready to rant about this, “Quinn can never compare to Rachel. I can see replacing Finn, but _Rachel_?”

               The two were sprawled on Molly’s sofa as per their new Friday night routine, a bowl of popcorn between them and Sebastian’s arm _finally_ around Molly’s shoulders. His heart hammered in his chest, but it was still a calm enough beat that he could hold a simple conversation about Glee.

               Which, it turned out, was _slightly_ entertaining.

               Not that he liked it. The sniper told himself that this was _obviously_ just because he was with Molly. Honestly, what kind of man watched a show about a showchoir with not even half a heterosexual character roster? Not him!

               “She _is_ a bit conceited, though,” Molly debated.

               Sebastian scoffed, “And Santana’s _not_? They just handed the lead to someone _else_ conceited? Why not give it to Tina?”

               _Fuck_ , the sniper silently cursed. Alright, maybe he liked Glee a little bit. Or a lot. Maybe Molly just made it interesting. He didn’t know. All he knew was, she brought color back into his life. Color he hadn’t seen since before he’d gone off to war.

               Molly giggled, “You wait and see what happens with Tina.”

               “Oh, _no_ ,” Sebastian moaned, “What, does she start dating Emma or something?”

               Molly got dangerously quiet, and the sniper looked in her direction just in time to have a small amount of popcorn thrown in his face.

               “That was uncalled for,” he grumbled, silently scolding himself.

               “Don’t push it,” Molly said brightly, “Anyway, no, she doesn’t. She just gets quite annoying and…changes.”

               “Huh,” Sebastian brooded. He didn’t have an interesting answer to that. Plus, Quinn and Sam’s duet was over, and a much quicker beat was starting.

               _Well sometimes I go out by myself and I look across the water…_

Sebastian blinked. Okay, this was _a little_ catchy.

               _And I think of all the things, what you’re doing, and in my head I paint a picture…_

Okay, it was more than a little catchy. Sebastian had an urge to tap his foot that he violently repressed, until he noticed Molly bobbing hers.

               “Santana’s kind of owning it,” the sniper commented, in awe.

               Molly nodded, “Britney, too, I think. Look,” she nodded towards the dancing blonde.

               _‘Cause since I’ve come on home, well, my body’s been a mess. And I’ve missed your ginger hair and the way you like to dress…_

               “She sure can dance. Her and Mike,” Sebastian said coolly, shamelessly tapping his foot. It had been a long, long time since he’d danced. The last time he could remember was in the Army. Jeez, some of those were good memories, though…

               _Won’t you come on over? Stop making a fool out of me…_

Molly laughed nervously, “Um, are you…?”

               “Oh, come _on_ ,” Sebastian got up, pulling Molly to her feet with him, “I see you tapping your foot,” he couldn’t stop himself from positively beaming at her.

               _Why don’t you come on over Valerie?_

“Oh, no,” Molly shook her head hurriedly, already on her feet, “Honestly, Seb-”

               Her pleas turned into a delighted shriek when he dipped her to the floor.

               _Valerie, Valerie, Valerie…_

Sebastian wasn’t extremely surprised to find that he was a far better dancer than Molly—she’d always had a way about her that suggested shyness, even if most of it stemmed simply from second guessing herself. That didn’t make it any less entrancing to move across the floor with her, dancing like a fool around the furniture.

               _Well sometimes I go out by myself, and I look across the water…_

He spun Molly in a perfect twirl, but was two parts shocked and delighted when, upon facing him again, she returned the favor.

               _And I think of all the things, what you’re doing, and in my head I paint a picture…_

Molly almost knocked a vase off a nearby table, which Sebastian caught before it was even within inches of the floor. He set it back down, grinning arrogantly, and started to dance again.

_‘Cause since I’ve come on home, well, my body’s been a mess. And I’ve missed your ginger hair and the way you like to dress…_

Sebastian wasn’t sure how this music was meant to be danced to, but he figured if the Glee cast was allowed to choreograph it to backflips, what he and Molly was doing wasn’t such a crime. Even if their dancing was akin to that of a middle aged parent at a family barbeque.

               _Won’t you come on over? Stop making a fool out of me…_

Molly spun in a little circle again, this time her hair whipping Sebastian in the face.

               “Oh, God, I’m sor-!”

               The sniper just laughed, shaking it off, and they both continued to dance, even more mirthful than before.

               _Why don’t you come on over Valerie?_

Molly laced their fingers together, but the two never stopped moving their feet. Sebastian wondered if the neighbors were going to complain. He didn’t care.

               _Valerie, Valerie, Valerie…_

               Sebastian spun Molly one more time, though he never fell out of synch with the music.

               _Why don’t you come on over Valerie?_

The last note spun out into the living room, followed by the artificial shrieks of an audience that didn’t exist. Sebastian and Molly joined in, creating their own tiny round of applause as they caught their breath.

               It may have been small, but it was real, and therefore of all the more significance. Sebastian noticed that Molly’s curtains were still open, and he didn’t care _at all_. He didn’t care that it would have been easy for someone outside, under the night sky, to see them making complete fools of themselves. He didn’t care if they’d seen Molly twirl him in a circle. Because for the first time since Sebastian could remember, he was as light as a cloud, without a care in the world about guilt or loneliness or criminal masterminds. Here, in this British girl’s flat, dancing to Glee, he was happier than he’d been since the Army. Maybe even happier than he’d been _while_ he’d been in the Army. Imagine that.

               Dancing with Molly was a little more fun than sniping, he decided.

               “Oh, no!” Molly fretted, gaping at the open curtains. Sebastian waved it off, eyes glittering at her.

               “Honestly, we’re having more fun than them, anyway.”

               “I know, I know,” Molly rushed to close them, “I just worry about whether or not…I mean, what if someone like _Sherlock_ had been outside and had seen-?”

               Sebastian’s face must have reflected how he suddenly felt, because realization dawned on Molly’s face as she stopped talking midstatement.

               _Sherlock. Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock Holmes?_

               It was like he’d been punched in the stomach.

               “Oh, Sebastian,” Molly gave him a sympathetic, flighty look, eyes wide, “I…I didn’t mean-”

               “No,” the sniper pushed down a little pang of anger, which was quickly replaced with disheartenment, “Don’t…I just… _him?_ ”

               “It’s…” Molly stuttered, “It’s not like that…” she bit at her hand nervously, not meeting Sebastian’s eyes.

               He may not have been a genius, but it was clear she was lying. He stared at her long enough that she finally snapped.

               “Alright!” her voice escaped her in a very un-Molly-like way, cutting through the room like a knife. She muted the television. “Fine. I’ve had a…a thing for him for a long time. So if you’re going to laugh at me, fine. But if you tell anyone-”

               “Wait,” Sebastian held up a hand, confused, “But, like, you know he’s gay, right?”

               Molly frowned, “What?” she shook her head, “No, he’s not gay…”

               “Yes,” Sebastian pushed, convinced he was right, “He _is._ His Soulmate is literally a guy. So I’m pretty sure that means you’re gay.”

               “I don’t know what you mean,” Molly seemed equally certain she was correct, “Sherlock doesn’t have a Soulmate. And even if he _did_ , the gender of your Soulmate doesn’t determine your sexual orientation, so-”

               “But he’s dating Jim Moriarty!” Sebastian burst out.

               The sniper felt a little bit sick as he watched the blood drain from Molly’s face. She looked like a ghost in the dim light, her profile illuminated by the television screen.

               “ _What?_ ” her voice was barely a whisper, and suddenly Sebastian had the impression that he’d made a terrible, terrible mistake.

               “Uh, maybe I’d better go-” he turned to leave, and was shocked and slightly terrified to find Molly block his way with blazing eyes.

               “Oh, no you don’t!” she said firmly, and Sebastian cowered, “Sherlock doesn’t have a Soulmate! And even if he did, it would _definitely_ not be Jim Moriarty! How do you even know that name? How would you know that Sherlock was his Soulmate? Not that he is, but still…”

               Sebastian blinked, all the questions seeming to blend together into one general ‘Molly is mad and I am afraid’ idea.

               “Um,” he said weakly, “Could you repeat the quest-”

               “Sherlock doesn’t have a Soulmate!” Molly repeated, looking completely livid. Something suddenly dawned on Sebastian.

               “Wait,” the sniper said slowly, “How do _you_ know Jim Moriarty?”

               Now, Sebastian liked to think himself a good person. I mean, sure, he killed for a living, but he wouldn’t be caught dead kicking a puppy or telling someone that, yes, they looked fat in that shirt. He was a good citizen, British or American, no matter how often he broke the law! That being said, he had to take a minute to reassess his view of himself when, just as Molly opened her mouth to explain, his phone started to ring.

(o0o0o0o0)

**Earlier that day**

               John sighed, taking solace in the steam rising from his tea. It sometimes felt like tea was the only constant in his and Sherlock’s lives these days. Although Sherlock had one other, more dangerous constant now.

               “Who are we going to tell?” he wondered out loud, not really expecting an answer. Who _could_ they tell? Mycroft would lock Jim up, which would make Sherlock unhappy, Lestrade would probably _fire_ Sherlock and cut off all contact—he was too nice to arrest the detective, but no rational person could hire the Soulmate of an _apparent_ psychopath to solve all their cases, no matter that Sherlock could still do it better than anyone else. It wasn’t good for business.

               Mrs. Hudson, _maybe_ , but if anyone, namely Mycroft, ever got suspicious and tried to interrogate her about it, she’d crack like an egg.

               So, he had Mary. But the pair of them had no one. And, even if they kept it a secret, Mary was still in more danger now than ever before. Jim had been furious enough _initially_ to bury her alive. John couldn’t imagine what his reaction would be if he found out _now_ that she was still breathing. The criminal would eviscerate them both, at best.

               John shook his head, deciding to voice his thoughts, “I suppose the only safe person would be Mrs. Hudson. _If_ someone needs to find out. Sherlock, if the press gets ahold of this…”

               The doctor continued to talk, but his words were nothing but a dull drone to the detective, who was sprawled in his chair a few feet away. Though for all he noticed his surroundings, he may as well have been on another planet. Sherlock had been ceaselessly and shamelessly thinking of Jim and only Jim since their last meeting, and he didn’t intend to stop simply because John was, once again, panicking over their current situation.

               _It’s true,_ the criminal drawled, _If the press finds out, Lestrade’s quick fixes won’t matter anymore._

Sherlock was amused, _Ah, but what about yours?_

_You think I’ll save your reputation, if we get found out?_

_That makes it sound like we’re having some sort of affair._

There was a brief pause, allowing both of the consultants time to consider the idea that this _could_ develop into…that.

               _Are we?_ Jim finally thought. He didn’t seem _opposed_ to the idea. They’d already established that neither of them was. Which was quite strange to Sherlock considering the criminal’s reaction after the night they’d slept together.

               The truth was: Sherlock wasn’t certain. Obviously, their dreams together pointed towards the ‘yes’ side of the debate. But he had to admit, despite previous half hearted experiments at university and the years afterward, he still hadn’t the faintest clue about romance. He knew how to parrot it and _pretend_ like he knew what he was doing, but the detective had never _really_ gained any experience he’d thought was worth saving. Most of it was deleted shortly afterwards, save for a few of the basics. If he and Jim were having an ‘affair’, what did that even _mean_? Was that what he and Adler had had? He wasn’t sure he wanted that again. As intoxicating as she was, most of that had consisted of John gaping at him and how _fascinating_ it was that he could even have a heart at all.

               It became evident to the detective that Jim was still listening, quietly and without comment.

               _God_ , but this was what perplexed him. Why was being so close to Jim so bloody pleasant all the time? He’d been repulsed when this whole Bond thing had started, so why was it suddenly so enjoyable? It wasn’t that he was thinking of Jim as a different person—no, he was still completely aware that this was the brilliant mastermind who’d stolen the crown jewels for him, who’d fled across London just for Sherlock to chase him. Still half mad, still the man who’d strapped John to Semtex, still _Moriarty_.

               This couldn’t _just_ be the hormones, could it? Sherlock still was capable of thinking rationally. He’d still been cautious when Jim had visited. Granted, a bit…jumpy, as the criminal had pointed out, but still himself.

               The only other conclusion was that some of this had already been present. The detective couldn’t _deny_ that. He’d always found Jim fascinating. But now that that was combined with a strong urge to mash their lips together, fascination had evolved into full on obsession.

               And…Sherlock was fine with that. _More_ than fine with that. As much as Jim was physically intriguing, what _really_ kept the detective mentally glued to his side was the _mental_ aspect. The most brilliant case to ever cross Sherlock’s path, and now he had access to _every_ thought the criminal merely entertained? God, yes. It brought a whole meaning to the phrase ‘married to the work’.

               _Slow down,_ Jim balked, secretly quite flattered, _If you think for one moment I’d ever participate in a marriage with_ anyone _, Sherlock-_

 _It would, in that hypothetical situation, be with me?_ the detective finished before he could stop himself.

               _…Yes, true. Touché. But you had your chance on the rooftop._

 _I hardly think suicide is the same as marriage,_ Sherlock paused to think, _Well, actually…_

_Ha!_

“Sherlock, are you even listening to me?” John finally managed to get through to the detective, and, reluctantly, Sherlock put thoughts of Jim aside to speak to his roommate. He sighed deeply.

               “Yes?”

               “What did I just say?” John demanded, sounding like a primary school teacher.

               “Something unimportant, I’m sure,” Sherlock muttered, ensuring he butchered the words enough that only he and Jim understood them. The criminal silently huffed in amusement.

               “What?”

               “I said, I don’t know,” Sherlock snapped, closing his eyes, “I was talking to Jim.”

               “Talking to-?” John was, miraculously, still completely incredulous about the consultants’ newly discovered situation, “And is this going to be a regular thing, now? Is it _already_ a regular thing?”

               “If _you_ had someone inside your mind twenty four hours a day, even when you were sleeping, wouldn’t you end up talking to them often? I don’t plan on spending my life in a constant awkward silence.” Though no silence, Sherlock thought, spent with Jim could ever be awkward.

               In fact, now that he thought about it, he didn’t think Jim had _ever_ made him feel awkward. Even on the morning they’d woken up together, dazed and confused, he’d been more upset than _uncomfortable._ The closest he’d ever felt to awkward with Jim was when they’d first met, the criminal in disguise as Molly’s boyfriend. And that wasn’t even a _true_ meeting.

               “Sherlock, I don’t know what to do about this, and I’m trying to keep people safe. _Please,_ for the love of God-”

               “The only person you need to worry about, if you want to keep people safe, is Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, sitting up straight to look at John, “He’s ruthless, and he’s not going to listen to anyone on this. He’ll stop at nothing to capture Moriarty and as soon as he does, God knows what he’ll-”

               “Mycroft doesn’t blow people up!”

               “Oh, he certainly does, he’s just not as flashy about it.”

               _Are you saying I’m_ tacky _, Sherlock Holmes?_

John didn’t seem to be able to deny Sherlock’s argument, and the detective found himself triumphant. The room fell heavily silent.

               “Sherlock?” John was looking at him very curiously, head cocked to the side like he was some sort of science experiment yielding unexpected results.

               “What?” the detective sighed tiredly.

               The doctor set his tea down, crossing his arms, “You actually care what happens to him, don’t you?”

               _I should hope not,_ Jim mused quietly. Sherlock ignored him again. They all were, it seemed, running in circles.

               “It’s a waste,” he said simply, not willing to offer any more comment. He wished that was his only reason. Sentiment undeniably and unfortunately also had a hand in it.

               Sherlock wished John would stop staring at him.

               “What’s he saying now?” the doctor studied him.

               _Tell him I’m singing the Canadian national anthem,_ Jim snapped, just as irritated as Sherlock was that John was prying.            

               “He told me to say he’s singing the Canadian national anthem,” the detective relayed, raising an eyebrow, “John, I’m not going to-”

               “No,” John held up his hands, resigned, “You’re right. Just try not to do anything too idiotic, alright?”

               Sherlock watched the doctor abandon his tea and head towards the door, fully aware that John was, once again, pissed off at him. Probably going to meet with that girlfriend of his.

               _Maybe we should have a meeting, as well,_ Jim suggested, catching Sherlock off guard and making his heartbeat spike with interest.

               _What…kind of meeting?_ As much as the detective wanted to see Jim, suddenly the idea of another meeting, so soon, was just as nerve-wracking as it was exciting.

               What would they even _do?_ If this was going to turn sexual, Sherlock wasn’t sure he wanted-

               _Are you going to let me finish?_ Jim snipped, _I meant, at neither of our flats. Somewhere in London. To shake hands._

Sherlock blinked, caught off guard by the unusual yet intriguing request, _Shake…hands?_

 _Yes,_ the criminal only faltered slightly, _Similar to the rooftop, only…_

 _Doesn’t result in a migraine,_ Sherlock finished, not in a jesting mood at all.

               _Hopefully,_ Jim thought softly, hesitantly.

               So neither of them knew what they were doing, then. That was…refreshing.

               _You know this will never be the game,_ Sherlock said quickly, _It’s going to be different if it’s just us and no competition. We’ve only known each other as adversaries-_

 _And we’ve been talking for days, now that we know each other as otherwise,_ Jim seemed to be forcing the words out, willing himself to believe them. He was still pushing back unpleasant memories that Sherlock had yet to learn about.

               _What is it we know each other as now?_ Sherlock wasn’t even sure he wanted to know the answer. This was all so new and strange.

               Jim pondered the question, _You’ll always be Sherlock to me. Unless you prefer William._

Sherlock balked, _How did you-?_

_Good God, Sherlock, I set up cameras in your flat. Do you honestly think I wouldn’t find out your first name?_

_Hm,_ the detective felt invaded, _Suppose not._

 _You can call me what you like,_ Jim continued.

               _You prefer James,_ Sherlock blurted out before he could think, and it was the criminal’s turn to be caught off guard.

               _What makes you-?_

_Nothing. Bit of deduction._

_Run through it for me. Bring it back! What makes you think I prefer-?_

_I’ll tell you,_ Sherlock inwardly smirked, _when we meet. Deal?_

Jim returned the mental smirk, irritation morphing into renewed interest, _Deal._

(o0o0o0o0)

               When Jim set out that night, he hadn’t spent quite so much time getting ready.

               Before, he’d lingered on the tiny details, right down to the trivial matter of physical appearance. Now, he was so anxious to get started that he barely spared himself a glance before heading out the door.

               Apprehensively, the criminal wondered what it was exactly they were ‘starting.’ He’d never felt nervous before meeting Sherlock before. Anticipation had always been abundant—Holmes had always excited him in a way no one else ever could, but this was something otherwise.

               He had a terrible feeling that tonight was going to result in more than a handshake. After all, their last meeting had almost resulted in a kiss. Had Watson not decided to walk in at the worst and best possible moment, there was no doubt that he and Holmes’s lips would have met.

               The idea sent a nervous spark of electricity through him, warming his Marked hand and forcing his steps to slow slightly on the snowy pavement.

               Of course they both were aware it had almost happened. But what were they supposed to say about it? That neither had any _clue_ what they were doing or why they were doing it or how fucking long it was even supposed to last.

               Jim both hoped this was nothing, and prayed that it was something more. It was useful sharing a mind on it, he supposed.

               The criminal crossed the street, shoes scuffing on the pavement and breath fogging out in front of him as he entered the icy silence of Clearshore park. Everything was covered in a layer of snow, and there didn’t seem to be anyone around, save for Jim. The thought eased his mind. As much as he wanted to be close to Sherlock tonight, it wouldn’t do to have people watching.

               For once, that bit of caution made Jim feel quite tired, rather than safe. It weighed on him like a rock on his back. How was it that safety could be such a burden?

               Noise from traffic faded slightly as the criminal walked, hands in his pockets. He felt like he had the night of the pool, almost. Like he didn’t have to be bored anymore.

               Now, how _absurd_ was that idea?

               A distant siren echoed into the midnight sky as Jim turned on his heel, leaning against a tree and not really minding if he got snow on his coat. This one was almost similar to Sherlock’s. He’d worn it on the rooftop, and if it was sturdy enough to survive a fall on concrete, it could stand a little bit of snow.

               Jim was mildly amused by the thought. This was what Sherlock did to him. Throwing high fashion items around like they were rags.

               _Hardly,_ the detective’s voice sounded distant, like he was murmuring the thought. Probably trying to find Jim.

               Dimly, the criminal wondered if Sherlock could even find him. He’d offered no clues—the only way his location could be known was through those brief flashes of awareness through the Bond giving sights, sounds, or other senses that usually faded into the background. Sherlock would have to be listening closer than usual.

               Oh, and if he had to _listen_ , he was surely going to be a while.

               Jim let his eyes wander upwards to the stars.

               The sky was cloudy; and though he hadn’t noticed it as he was walking, extremely fine flakes of snow were falling, making him blink more frequently to keep them out of his eyes.

               In this weather, making out any actual constellations was an impossibility, but as Jim stared upwards, he felt like a prison cell was being unlocked. The criminal let out a deep sigh, one that seemed to make its way through his entire body and take three years off his age. He vaguely remembered mentioning astronomy to Sherlock when they’d been in that pub together, and wasn’t sure how he felt about it. When he’d had no one else, the cosmos had still been there with their promise to take him away someday. How could he share that with anyone, even if they were his so called Soulmate?

               “That’s all very philosophical,” a voice sounded from his left, making Jim turn to see Sherlock, coat and scarf and curly hair, making his way towards him. “But I’ve never been one for sentiment.”

               The criminal licked his lips, heart skipping a beat as he looked Sherlock up and down, “Neither have I,” he drawled, waiting for Sherlock to finish his statement.

               “And yet,” the detective’s toothy smirk was enough to make Jim go weak in the knees, “here we are.”

               Jim returned the smirk, his slightly softer as he got off the tree, starting towards Sherlock, “Here we are.”

               Sherlock was stoic again, “You didn’t think I’d find you?” his tone was accusatory.

               “It’s not a popular park,” Jim shrugged.

               “I have all of London mapped out-”

               “And,” the criminal’s steps slowed, the closer they got. God, they were completely in the open now. Perhaps they should have stayed in the shadows. “That’s not going to do you any good at all if you don’t know _where_ in London I am.”

               “Hmph,” Sherlock huffed, looking away. There was a pregnant pause.

               “What were you doing,” Jim inquired, heart hammering in his chest, “before John walked in?”

               The criminal felt slightly guilty at the jolt of nerves the question sent through Sherlock, who played it off with a nervous laugh, “What _I_ was doing-?”

               Jim stared him down, eyes dark as the sky, “Yes. What were you doing?”

               Sherlock didn’t want to articulate himself aloud anymore, _Perhaps a better question is what WE were doing._

Arms crossed for warmth, and so he wasn’t so tempted to hold Sherlock’s hands, Jim forced himself to continue to meet the detective’s gaze.

               “I don’t know,” he said quietly, perhaps more so than he’d intended, because the phrase did something strange to Sherlock’s heart. “I’m glad Watson walked in.”

               Sherlock was actually _hurt_ for a moment, before he saw Jim’s thought process.

               _It has to be me, you know,_ the criminal explained, reluctantly letting Sherlock into a more sensitive part of his mind, _I have to be the first._

               The detective’s brow furrowed in confusion for a moment as he searched Jim’s face. _First to…?_

_Sherlock, I need the control. Just that bit._

Sherlock’s expression softened slightly in understanding, _Ah…_

_It’s foolish. I’d advise you not to pry._

_Can only hope that you’ll let me sometime._

Jim suddenly felt quite small. And very cold. He shivered, looking out over the snow. It was white as the hand he held out between them, glistening with silver and trembling slightly, not only from the chill. They were close enough that the criminal could feel the fabric of the detective’s coat against his fingertips.

               Sherlock wasn’t very hesitant. He was careful, and he looked down to study the offering a moment before he moved a muscle, but when their palms met, Jim still felt a little caught off guard.

               Again, the reaction that hit them was remarkably instantaneous. However, it was more enjoyable this time; the consultants no longer felt like all the air had been ripped from their lungs. Instead, this interaction was pleasant; chaste, subtle, and quiet. Jim didn’t feel quite so afraid as he’d thought he would. The criminal was almost tranquil, though he couldn’t apply the word with surety to himself, given that he wasn’t sure entirely what calmness was supposed to feel like…

Twin sighs neither had realized they’d been carrying escaped them simultaneously, circling up towards the stars in clouds of vapor, and warmth spread through their veins like the most sinful drug.

               But it wasn’t sinful. Not in the slightest. In fact, this was the lightest Jim had ever felt. Though he still faced difficulty turning his head to look at Sherlock, rather than the surrounding area.

               He studied the detective’s scarf. Despite the fabric being centimeters from his eyes, he couldn’t see it or process it at all; the only sensation he seemed able to focus on was Sherlock’s palm against his. The world could have ended right then around them, and Jim was certain the two of them would have simply stayed in place, because for the first time in his life, the criminal’s mind was completely silent.

               And, for some odd reason, that silence seemed to be all he ever needed to resolve ‘this’. This problem.

               Jim shifted his palm grasped in Sherlock’s, giving it a small, almost imperceptible squeeze, swallowing any last hesitance he might have had. Before he could turn back, he allowed his eyes to flutter shut, despite the fact that he felt as though he was preparing to jump off a cliff. Had this been how Sherlock had felt on the rooftop?

               No. It couldn’t be, because this time, Jim knew that someone was going to catch him. Every accelerated beat of Sherlock’s heart was audible to him, more so even than the distant sounds of traffic. Despite their already close proximity, a combination of nerves and strange gentleness seemed to lengthen the distance between them, so much that it felt like forever before their lips finally met, cold and dry.

               The kiss was just as terrible as Jim had predicted. Terrible and soft as the falling snow. It was barely a brush of the lips, the pressure almost nonexistent, and yet it was enough to stop the criminal’s world from spinning. Either that, or enough to start it, because suddenly it felt like he was seeing every star that London’s light pollution kept from him. Worlds were shifting, planets were colliding, and they were barely even touching.

               Sherlock’s lips were cold and chapped against his, and his palm, despite its contact with Jim’s, was equally icy. But somehow, that bit of contact was enough to warm the criminal’s chest and confirm for him the apocalyptic theory he’d been nursing for so long—he was, unfortunately, undeniably, fatally in love with Sherlock Holmes.

               As they were breaking apart, bliss coursing through the detective, this confirmation seemed to hit Jim in its full, lethal form.

               The criminal’s mouth fell open, tingling from their kiss, and he stumbled back a few paces, gaping at Sherlock and suddenly finding it very difficult to breath.

               _In love with Sherlock Holmes In love with Sherlock Holmes In love with Sherlock Holmes Jesus fucking Christ you are in LOVE with Sherlock Holmes._

Meanwhile, Sherlock stood blinking, unable to so much as process his own name.

               The criminal shook his head, turning to leave, the lengths of his strides twice their average length. He needed air. He needed to run away from this. He couldn’t be in love with Sherlock. The game was so much safer, oh, _why_ hadn’t they just stuck with that? Why couldn’t they have kept things from getting this messy? He was _not_ willing to go through this entire, _painful_ process of human emotion again. He’d had quite enough experience with _that,_ thank you very much-

               “James!”

               Said consultant stopped in his tracks so abruptly that he almost slipped and fell backwards. Memories of Sherlock’s earlier, strangely accurate deduction about his preferred name replaced the more traumatic ones he’d been pondering.

               He couldn’t turn around. He simply couldn’t. It felt like the detective’s eyes were burning a hole through his back.

               _What?_ Jim snapped, not turning around.

               To his surprise, Sherlock offered nothing cryptic or sarcastic or even ominous. Nothing that he ordinarily would have resorted to in an attempt to get the last word. No, instead he simply showed Jim a quick snapshot from what felt like centuries ago.

               _“James Moriarty isn’t a man at all-”_

 _Jim felt a slight jolt at Holmes’s use of his full name. Hm. That was odd. Sherlock did make this court ordeal slightly less boring. He couldn’t wait to get to the_ real _games…_

The criminal wasn’t sure what to think. Sherlock had been paying _far_ more attention than he’d thought. How much _prying_ through his old memories had he done? Jim had discarded that strange little reaction long ago as nothing other than a temporary lapse in life’s tedium. How deep had Sherlock managed to dig through his psyche to find it?

               The criminal spun around, ready to demand an answer. Instead he saw nothing but a set of footprints, quickly being filled in by the more quickly falling snow.

               Oh, _fuck!_

               So now Sherlock was going to leave him? After all that? Did he know how _infuriating_ that was?

               Something about the detective’s current smugness said he knew _exactly_ how Jim was feeling. And he was getting a kick out of it.

               Jim glanced around rapidly, heart pounding with love and fear and fury. Hell, he could feel _everything_ under the damn sun right now, and he hadn’t the _faintest_ clue what the fuck to do about it.

               The criminal fumbled for his phone a moment, only half aware of what he was doing, and without decision dialed the only number he could bloody think of.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian refused to look at the caller ID, but the prospect of meeting Molly’s eyes was equally as terrifying. He feigned a sudden fascination with the wall to his right.

               “ _Answer it_ ,” Molly hissed the demand. The sniper weighed whether she or Moriarty was more likely to kill him if he didn’t answer. Either way, there seemed to be only one thing to do.

               Slowly, he took it out of his pocket, but just as he was about to answer, it stopped ringing.

               He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. At least until Molly spoke next, when oxygen suddenly seemed incompatible with his body again.

               “Who,” she narrowed her eyes at him, “Is ‘Boss’?”

               Sebastian swallowed, cursing himself out for not angling his screen more effectively, “Molly, I…”

               “You don’t… _work_ for Moriarty, do you?” her voice was quite weak suddenly, barely leaving her in a whisper. It tugged at the sniper’s heartstrings. He opened his mouth to answer her, to come clean to this first real companion he’d had for years, when she spoke again.

               “And…what were you saying about him and Sherlock?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hope you all enjoyed! Leave me your thoughts!
> 
> 'Won't you come on over? Stop makin a fool outta meeeeee'
> 
> Pfft. What foreshadowing? That's so lame why would she put that in a Glee song? Wtf is plaguedbynargles doing?


	27. Neptune

               Sherlock couldn’t stop an elated grin from spreading across his face. Here he was, deftly navigating the shadows of London, at God knew what hour, being pursued by none other than Jim Moriarty.

               Indeed, just after he’d hastily hung up on Sebastian, the criminal had set off to find Sherlock. The detective wanted to be caught just as badly as he’d once wanted to catch Moriarty, but it was so _delicious_ being the mad one; the elusive consultant on the run.

               And _oh,_ Jim’s frustration only spurred him forward through the snow. Maybe they were masochists, because the criminal _was_ getting a bit of enjoyment from this.

               _I’ll catch you_ , Moriarty’s thoughts were a beautiful snarl, sending even more fire through Sherlock’s veins.

               _Finally_ something interesting was happening. He felt high for the first time since before Bonding, and it was nothing short of blissful. Sherlock was light from his head to his feet, and the only thoughts occupying his mind were of the devil on his heels.

               The thought of Moriarty sent a light jolt through him, keeping his stomach warm and tingling.

               _No you won’t,_ Sherlock repeated Jim’s old words back to him cheekily as he turned a corner, almost slipping on the layer of freshly fallen snow underneath his feet. The frozen white was coming down harder than ever now, in large flakes that did a fantastic job of reducing visibility to a few feet in front of him. It made it difficult to anticipate places either he _or_ Jim could hide or use as detours. The occasional flash he might get of the criminal’s location meant nothing, because the snow obscured their surroundings so well. He had no way of knowing where the criminal was. Jim could be either three meters behind him or three miles away, and he’d never know unless he was told. Sherlock’s knowledge of London was almost completely useless, and it was _brilliant_ ; like being able to sprint after being kept in a cage for weeks.

               Running actually sounded fantastic, despite the slick pavement. Jim silently agreed, and in a flash of tensed muscles both consultants were running through the blizzard, the danger of running into traffic or slipping and falling only making the hunt more exciting.

               It was just as things had been before the Bond. The detective was on heroin and cocaine and ecstasy _all at once_ because he was being genuinely chased by _Moriarty._ The game was back on, and it spurred his legs into even broader strides.

               Despite the partial blindness the snow caused, Sherlock wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so clearly. His lungs were burning _with_ Jim’s, his legs ached and cold bit at his face twofold because the criminal’s senses were his own. And as fixated on the detective’s face as Jim seemed to be, Sherlock was certain that he had more of the criminal’s committed to memory.

               _You love this,_ Sherlock wondered if Jim could tell how winded he was, just from his thoughts, _The tables turning._

 _I think you do,_ Jim answered, definitely panting (which answered Sherlock’s question), _You’re getting off on this. Don’t think I don’t notice._

 _I could say the same to you,_ Sherlock licked his lips. He was slowing down, but it was still impossible to tell where he was in London. There was a coffee shop next to him, run down and generic looking even in the reduced visibility.

               _You want me to catch you,_ Jim said earnestly. There was a familiar electricity running through his veins, an urge that made Sherlock flex his Marked hand. It procured memories of clumsy kisses in 221B and clothes torn off in a blur of skin and lust.

               The memory had been something Sherlock had avoided and cringed at up until now. Now, it was a challenge.

               Because suddenly, Jim’s lips on his was something he wanted again. Wanted more than he’d ever wanted a case. God, he had no idea _what_ the hell they were doing, but Sherlock knew he wanted more of it. He liked this game. He wanted it. He wanted Moriarty.

               Apprehensively, silently, but no less firmly, Jim agreed. He’d evidently slowed his pace as well, as Sherlock could no longer feel the criminal’s lungs burning. There was caution in his steps, and the detective knew, without even looking, that he was caught.

               “Gotcha.”

               Jim’s voice was barely a whisper; a breath of air that would have been effortlessly stolen away by the wind had Sherlock not been so attuned to the criminal’s voice. It rang clear as a bell, because there was _nothing_ on Earth the detective would rather have heard.

               Eyes glinting, snow on his lashes, Sherlock turned to face Moriarty.

               The criminal’s gaze was slightly guarded, though his eyes were still alight with the chase, his cheeks still flushed. He was pleased to see Sherlock, his irritation long faded away.

               _That was rude,_ Jim chastised lightly, absurdly making Sherlock have to suppress a shiver.

               The detective couldn’t think, only stare at the contrast of Jim’s dark eyes with the snow around them.

               _Just a bit of fun,_ Sherlock took a deep breath, puffing his chest and letting it out slowly. Even after the fog had been dissipated by the blizzard, his pulse was still erratic, thrumming in his chest and urging him ever closer to his adversary.

               Jim was covered in snow; white coated his jacket and was crusted on his hair. The detective assumed he looked no better. He debated crossing his arms for warmth, but there seemed a much more effective way to get that, already.

               Well, not effective. Scientifically he was sure there were better methods. But kissing Jim was worth a little bit of chill.

               The criminal blinked at him, expression unreadable. His emotions were shifting from offended to afraid to aroused and _everywhere else_ they could possibly be. Jim felt everything, and it all was coming from Sherlock.

               The detective was flattered.

               _This is mad,_ Jim’s Mark was prickling with need as he watched his Soulmate.

               “To think,” Sherlock wished his voice wasn’t trembling slightly, both from cold and want, “ _I’m_ the mad one.”

               Jim smirked, that strange smirk again that held no malice, no sarcasm, lighting up his face even as he looked away, “Yes,” he insisted, grin growing, “ _You are.”_

That did it for Sherlock. The detective closed the distance between them, working purely off of instinct as he pulled Jim into an off center kiss with a “mmf!” that was both surprised and contented.

               If it was possible for a person to melt into their partner’s arms, that was what Sherlock supposed Jim did.

               The criminal recentered their kiss, folding himself into the detective’s embrace so that they were chest to chest. Familiar warmth spread through Sherlock’s chest as arms wrapped themselves around him. Jim’s Marked hand was in the detective’s sodden hair, pulling slightly as the criminal urged him down further into the kiss.

               No longer caring about the fact that Jim’s hair was styled, Sherlock laced his fingers through it, wondering when he was going to get to feel the criminal’s natural hair again. From what he remembered of the night at the bar, it had been quite soft.

               _God, Sherlock._

_What?_

               _Don’t stop. Please._

Sherlock deepened the kiss, pressing his lips a little more firmly to Jim’s and becoming a little more aggressive in his movements. He was incredibly intrigued by the moan building in the criminal’s throat, and pressed their torsos closer together as best he could, focusing especially on the hips.

               Jim broke away for a moment to gasp, and it struck the detective that he genuinely needed air. Cataloging this for later, Sherlock enthusiastically pressed their lips together once more, no longer aware of where they were or the snowflakes swirling around them. Their touches were growing desperate and if, for a moment, their mouths had seemed those of experienced men, this disappeared more rapidly as their desperation grew.

               Sherlock had never wanted a person. Not like this. He was shocked to find Jim eagerly agree.

               _You, Sherlock,_ the detective grunted in surprise when Jim bit at his lower lip, _It was always you._

The confession shocked Sherlock enough that his movements faltered a moment, leaving Jim still attacking his unmoving lips. The idea that they were two of a kind dated all the way back to their meeting at the pool, but it was still incredible to him that he could be someone’s ‘always’. Not even John’s. And yet, here was his Soulmate, his mirror image, telling him that he was just that.

               He was Jim’s ‘always’.

               The criminal winced at his own words, but instead of backtracking decided to kiss Sherlock harder, pulling his hair a little more than before. They were both, evidently, tired of denying what they felt. Even though what they felt couldn’t have been expressed in all its glory if they’d kissed for hours. Or even days.

               Surely, Sherlock thought, they would both have bruised lips tomorrow. It was almost like dancing, this need to get closer. Hands scrambling for any contact they could possibly get with the other person— _especially_ if it was with skin, mouths sloppily connected and bodies writhing together like dancing cobras.

               It was impossible to resist the temptation to open his mouth slightly. He ran his tongue along Jim’s bottom lip, pleased with how lightheaded it made the criminal, who had begun to lean on Sherlock ever so slightly. Jim opened his mouth as well, and the detective groaned quietly as their tongues explored one another’s mouths, every once in a while touching and sending a shiver down both consultant’s spines. Suddenly, Sherlock was more than a little bit aware of how quickly he was getting hard.

               That thought seemed to jolt Jim out of their finally real life fantasy with an unpleasant pang of anxiety. The criminal broke the kiss, and, panting slightly and still clinging to Sherlock like a lifeline. Still dazed, he spoke despite a lack of confidence in his current ability to form words. This was important.

               “Not here,” Jim managed to get out, still unconsciously leaning in again as though they were magnetically attracted. His brow furrowed, “…off the streets.”

               Sherlock frowned, thinking of dark alleys, “You don’t mean…?”

               Jim grabbed the detective’s hand, sending another rush of want over him and making it mildly difficult to remember how to walk. The criminal dragged him a few meters forward, past the old coffee shop and in front of a dark building with boarded up windows.

               Sherlock wished he could have raised an eyebrow. All he seemed able to focus on was Jim’s hand in his, cold and soft. The detective watched hungrily as the criminal turned the knob of the black door in front of them with his Marked hand. Shockingly, it opened.

               The consultants stepped inside a room black as night, and equally as cold. The only light came from the streetlights outside, shining through the boarded windows in rays that almost resembled moonlight, though Sherlock knew that any natural light in a storm like this was a miracle.

               Jim’s breath smoked in front of him. His eyes shone at the detective in the dim light.

               _I know what you’re thinking,_ he started, and Sherlock smirked.

               _Well spotted._

 _It’s safe,_ Jim persisted, ignoring the joke, _It’s been abandoned for about half a month. Used to be a part of the flats next door, but there was an issue with plumbing that couldn’t be fixed. No one wants to buy it._

 _Obviously,_ Sherlock countered, _But what about-?_

_Dealers don’t want it. No one’s buying in this area._

The detective smirked again, _I know that._

Jim pressed himself closer to the detective. Both of them were shivering slightly from cold.

               _Of course,_ the criminal conceded, _Homeless are taking advantage. But there are only two regular visitors I know of, and they’re sleeping at this hour, if they’re even here. Probably upstairs where it’s safer._

_I see._

_Just keep quiet._

_I should have known you’d know London as well as I,_ Sherlock wasn’t sure exactly where he wanted Jim’s Marked hand, but he knew he wanted it on him.

               Jim leaned in so close that his lips were just barely brushing against the detective’s, and murmured against them, voice gentle as a feather.

               “Don’t be obvious.”

               Sherlock grabbed the criminal by the collar and positively crashed their lips together harder than ever before, and made sure to commit every detail of the way Jim gasped against his lips to memory. The detective’s back was to the wall, and soon they were sliding to the cold, worn, hardwood floor together. Mouths opened again, and Jim took Sherlock’s Marked palm in his, sending a surge of what could only be electricity through the both of them as the criminal pressed himself closer to the detective, pinning his arm above his head so their interlaced hands weren’t between them.

               Why, oh why, had it needed to be both _right_ hands? Sherlock wished he didn’t have to choose between having both of Jim’s hands on him and having their Marks touch.

               Sherlock was initially disheartened when the criminal broke the kiss once more, distancing his tongue from the detective’s. This disappointment disappeared completely, however, when Jim attached his lips to Sherlock’s neck instead.

               _Oh…_ that was new.

Embarrassingly, the detective couldn’t suppress a groan; one loud enough that Jim’s lips left Sherlock’s neck just as quickly as they’d arrived.

               _Keep quiet!_ he thought with alarm, but Sherlock wasn’t having any of it. This was too good. He was too high to fret about anything.

               Jim rolled his eyes, but fear still tugged at him. Sherlock just tugged harder, pressing their lips together again.

               _Can you do the…?_

               _God, yes. But be quiet._

_Hm._

The criminal started on Sherlock’s neck again, but instead of kissing, he _sucked_. The detective bit his swollen lip in an attempt to quiet himself, but a desperate grunt still managed to escape him.

               _I’d apologize, but-_

_Don’t._

Sherlock couldn’t think of anything better to do than close his eyes, lean back, and feel Jim work. He wasn’t certain of what the usual rule people went by, in terms of returned pleasure—he was mildly concerned that it would be rude to simply let Jim do everything…

               To his surprise, the criminal didn’t have an answer ready. Though he did give Sherlock’s neck an experimental nip with his teeth, drawing the detective’s attention to the fact that he was now completely hard, his cock straining against his trousers.

               For whatever reason, this fact seemed to make Jim nervous, stomach fluttering both with arousal and anxiety.

               The criminal shifted, pulling back from Sherlock’s neck. Suddenly, the detective felt just as uncertain as his partner did. He knew the basics of sex, yes, but this was _James Moriarty_. He actually cared about pleasing Jim and how he would be perceived, and even though he’d done it before, this felt like the first time he’d ever—

               _Me too,_ the criminal’s thoughts interrupted him, and Sherlock blinked, studying the man in front of him. Jim let go of the detective’s Marked hand, freeing both pairs of arms, and gently moved in closer to Sherlock, so that their bodies were pressed together. It was a little bit distracting, but Sherlock forced himself to listen.

               _There were others,_ Jim acknowledged the detective’s suspicion, _I felt nothing, Sherlock. That isn’t sentiment. I just thought it was boring overall—_

 _Me too!_ Sherlock interrupted the criminal, too excited to wait, _Irene Adler, maybe, but nothing like this._

Jim’s eyes were twin voids in the darkness, glinting ever so slightly when he moved. It was beautiful.

               _You weren’t ordinary,_ the criminal noted, leaning to examine the marks he’d left on Sherlock’s neck, though never touching them, _I suppose it makes sense._

 _It makes more sense than it should,_ Sherlock shook his head, despite himself nuzzling closer to Jim until their foreheads were touching, resting against one another in the darkness. The criminal was suddenly very still, and the detective waited a moment to ensure that he was, in fact, still breathing.

               _Of course I’m breathing, doofus,_ the thought was gentle, but still had a bit of an edge to it, _You’re just making it more difficult._

Sherlock licked his lips, _I’ve been told I have that effect on people._

_Jesus, are you always so arrogant?_

_Apparently,_ the detective never explicitly stated it, but he was more relieved at how little his nerves were showing.

               Jim took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. In this quiet darkness, Sherlock was _certain_ he could feel the air being absorbed by the criminal’s cells. He could notice anything. Including the hardness in Jim’s trousers, pressing against his own.

               _Please,_ the criminal started to move away, but Sherlock only pulled him back. _Not tonight. It’s not safe._

The detective scoffed softly, _Safe enough so far._

 _You wouldn’t want to, either,_ Jim’s voice sharpened slightly, _Not here._

 _No,_ Sherlock agreed, _Imagine if the tabloids got ahold of that one._

 _Imagine if_ I _got ahold of that one,_ the criminal’s lips twitched devilishly. Sherlock sighed loudly, suddenly exasperated. Jim gave him a questioning look.

               _If this is all a ploy—_

 _You’re fucked,_ Jim finished for him, _Completely and utterly fucked._

               _Not a bad way to go,_ Sherlock commented.

               _Nah,_ the criminal was leaning in again, _Almost wish I had an agenda. This would be a pretty web to spin._

The detective studied Moriarty for a long time.

               _So,_ Sherlock finally thought, _neither of us know what we’re doing?_

 _Well—_ Jim was obviously not _thrilled_ with the idea of seeming weak in any form, but Sherlock silenced him with a kiss; making sure once again to commit every sound, every touch, every sensation to memory. Even the cold that was starting to make his fingers go numb.

               The detective wasn’t quite sure if a generalization was due to be made, but he was almost certain his favorite part of this was Jim’s arms around him. He’d never been one to beg for human contact of any sort, to need that most basic of comforts, but if the criminal was the one giving it to him, suddenly it seemed just as necessary as food and water. Maybe more so.

               _This is a mess,_ Jim’s eyelashes tickled Sherlock’s face as he pulled away, _We’re getting sentimental._

_God, I know. Maybe get off me. I can’t exactly walk home in my current state, and since neither of us want to go further—_

He needn’t have finished his thought. Jim already had flipped himself so that he sat next to Sherlock, back against the wall and knees drawn close as he caught his breath. The detective’s lips still tingled from their kissing session.

               They weren’t even _touching_ , and yet Sherlock still felt like he had electricity buzzing in his veins. That was annoying. Not that he wanted it to stop. Ever.

               _Sherlock,_ Jim’s thoughts were very…young again. Tired, unsure, genuine. The detective wasn’t sure whether he wanted to scientifically document them or give Jim’s hand a squeeze.

The criminal grew silent a moment before continuing, _Promise me…_ he trailed off, unable to say what he wanted to, silently or not. Jim almost seemed _angry_ , though not at the man next to him. What provoked him was something far more insidious.

“You don’t have to,” Sherlock breathed. Because inexplicably, he knew _precisely_ what Jim was feeling. And inexplicably, he knew that Jim was no psychopath.

               The criminal was…terrified of life without a mask. He’d been wearing one so long that he felt naked without it. And here was Sherlock…an adversary, and a brilliant one. But also able to match Jim’s cruelty very easily, and without remorse, especially after their past conflicts. Human affection was something the criminal had never been able to comprehend, because he’d never _experienced_ it before. Not with someone he wanted to. Jim had distanced himself for so long that he’d convinced himself he’d never want to be close. Never before _had_ he wanted to be near to another person. And yet, he wanted it with Sherlock. This thing that had done nothing but hurt him for his entire existence. He’d done nothing but build up walls against it, and Sherlock made him want to tear all those down. But the threat of the detective disappointing him, of making him wish he’d stayed alone, was so great that Jim would almost rather his love stayed the observational kind.

               _Is that it?_ Sherlock asked flatly.

               It took a moment for the detective to realize that he’d literally stolen Jim’s breath away. It took the criminal a moment to regain his composure.

               _You’ve read me like a book._

 _No,_ the detective negated, _You help me read_ myself _like a book._

_Sentimental, again._

_But that’s what you want,_ Sherlock turned to Jim, eyes blazing, even in the darkness, _Neither of us are willing to admit we do, but to have an equal this close is an opportunity that would be a shame to waste._

Jim was unmoving, _I know that. You haven’t answered my question._

The detective frowned.

               _I don’t want you…to disappoint me,_ the criminal continued, forcing the words out, despite the fact that he had to do no work vocally, _Don’t make me regret this._

 _Spare you my cruelty,_ Sherlock summarized, and Jim looked at him in a way he never thought he’d be able to forget.

               _And I’ll spare you mine._

A heavy silence fell. Sherlock was sure he was supposed to fill it with a kiss, an embrace, _something—_ but he couldn’t imagine it. He couldn’t move a muscle, because anything at all, even a breath out of tune, would cheapen this. What he _really_ wanted, if anything, was to take Jim’s hand in his, but even after spending God knows how long kissing the criminal, even holding hands suddenly seemed impossible. Just as he started to stand, he felt fingers lightly brush his hand. When he looked at Jim, the criminal wouldn’t meet his eyes.

               Good _God,_ this was going to get confusing, wasn’t it?

               “Are you leaving?” Jim asked, still on the floor. Sherlock marveled slightly at the exaggerated height difference, and the criminal took zero notice.

               The detective fiddled with his clothes, finishing by turning his coat collar up, which for whatever reason brought warmth to Jim’s chest the same way the kissing had.

               “Now that I’m decent,” Sherlock said coolly, “I’m assuming the Napoleon of Crime isn’t going to be spending the night in an abandoned flat?”

               “Nah,” Jim got up, “Might have with you. Not alone. If I’m going to be alone, I’d rather be alone on silk sheets.”

               Sherlock snorted quietly, “The rumors aren’t true. The ones your little pawns spread.”

               The criminal’s eyes glinted mischievously, “Of course not. Not unless you really want your own personal nuclear warhead. In that case, we can arrange something.”

               Mind reading or not, it was completely impossible to tell whether Jim was kidding or not.

               “You have that sniper terrified,” Sherlock drawled as the criminal stepped past him silently.

               Jim opened the door, sending a gust of snow inside.

               “Good.” _You know it’s better that way._

Sherlock couldn’t argue with the logic behind it, so he offered no comment. He still thought Sebastian was a bloody idiot. Plus, the detective was detecting some very obvious homophobia from the sniper. Ordinarily, he’d have thought Jim aligned himself with that view, or simply didn’t care, and that was why Sebastian kept his job, but…

               Well, it was more complicated than that, now. Because despite Jim’s past use of slurs, now Sherlock was starting to suspect there was something else behind it. He hadn’t thought of it much before, but the criminal had been quite panicked he’d thrown them at Sherlock.

               God, now this was his problem, wasn’t it? As much as he wished it weren’t true, emotions and flaws were a part of Jim Moriarty as much as they were a part of John or anyone else.

               Jim opened his mouth as though to say something, then closed it again. Oh the trials of knowing how much sentiment to use.

               _You’ll be hearing from me._

The repeated line spiked the detective’s pulse, and Jim was halfway out the door before he found his voice again.

               “Likewise,” he paused, “James.” The name tasted foreign, but pleasant on his tongue. Though not quite as pleasant as the way the criminal’s eyes lit up when he used it. Sherlock stepped out of the doorway with James, squinting slightly against the snow blowing into his face.

               It was strange, watching the criminal leave and knowing that it wouldn’t be the last time they saw one another. James’s thoughts were still there, as reassuring as the grip of a hand, telling him that everything had been real, and would continue to be real.

               Sherlock wasn’t ashamed of his quickened pulse. After all, this was just a different sort of game.

(o0o0o0o0)

               John was awakened by muffled violin music, dark and romantic. He wrapped his arm tighter around the body next to him, pulling her closer and rubbing her back through the cotton pajama shirt she still wore. Sighing in contentment with this new position, he started to drift back towards the bliss of sleep.

               But _damn_ , this music was reminding him of something. Something important…

               _Sherlock._

               The doctor’s eyes snapped open, his entire body suddenly wide awake. Next to him Mary stirred, and he put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

               _Shit._ He hadn’t intended to stay the whole night. Mary had been a bit more nervous than usual when he’d mentioned that Sherlock was currently out, unfortunately probably with Jim. He’d offered to stay until she fell asleep, so that he could be at 221B when Sherlock got back and avoid too many questions and unnecessary deductions, but he must’ve dozed off.

               Fuck, and now Sherlock was home. John had just come downstairs in his pajamas, so there were going to be a lot of questions about where he’d been since _whenever_ Sherlock had returned, without any proper clothing. He needed an excuse, and fast.

               “Pretty music,” Mary mumbled sleepily, rolling over as John got up, “Thought you weren’t going to stay the night.”

               “I wasn’t,” the doctor looked around the room for some sort of inspiration, “And Sherlock’s going to want answers as to why I’ve been out in my pajamas since whenever he got home.” That time, unfortunately, could have been anywhere from midnight to thirty minutes ago.

               Mary propped herself up on an elbow, “Why not just say you were helping Mrs. Hudson with something? You know her well enough that the pajamas wouldn’t be so questionable, plus, she could ask you to do anything from a thirty minute task to a three hour one without shame.”

               John blinked, “That’s…brilliant,” he studied Mary, “But what if-?”

               “Sherlock’s not going to care,” she waved a hand, “Honestly, John, if he’s as inexperienced with romance as you say he is, Jim Moriarty probably hit him like a pound of bricks.”

               John felt a little bit sick, and it must have showed on his face, because Mary hurriedly backtracked:

               “Oh, no!” she sat up, looking like she was unsure whether to smile or be concerned along with the doctor, “I’m sure he can handle himself. First loves are confusing for a lot of people, I think, though. Especially someone so used to overanalysis as Sherlock.”

               “Jim—I mean, Moriarty wasn’t his first,” John shook his head, “Love, that is. Other things…maybe,” he suppressed a shudder, remembering the last time he’d seen the criminal, “There was a woman, but it didn’t…work out. And he was so worked up about her-”

               “Is she dead?” Mary asked suddenly, grey eyes unreadable. John frowned.

               “Yes, but how…?”

               The blonde interrupted him again, “I just saw it on your face. The way you mentioned her. But go to Sherlock, before he comes to find you.”

               John nodded slowly, struck by a sinking feeling that Mary had known about Irene’s death for an entirely different reason. No wonder she needed someone to watch her while she slept. Anyone who had been in Moriarty’s employ probably needed a little bit of therapy, professional or otherwise.

               And what did that say about _Sherlock’s_ current relationship with the criminal, which was and forever would be much closer than Jim’s with his employees?

               “Right,” John gave Mary a small smile, “I’ve got to deal with _two_ geniuses now. Fantastic.”

               Neither of them mentioned that Moriarty made three. Mary returned his smile with a broad grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

               “Have fun. Try not to screw up your excuse.”

               “Pfft!” John scoffed, “I’m not that bad a liar!”

               “Well how would you know?” Mary grinned, “No one ever knows when they’re in the company of a good one.”

               Unsure what to make of that statement, John let his eyebrows rise and fall before turning to go. He felt slightly guilty leaving Mary when he was so aware of how much pain she was still working through, but then again, Sherlock needed him just as much.

               “Oh, and John?”

               He turned back to face Mary, who avoided his gaze, smiling shyly.

               “Thank you.”

               For whatever reason, those two words had the doctor’s stomach in knots. It took a moment, when Mary’s grey eyes met his again, for him to remember how to speak.

               “Yeah,” John said blankly, nodding curtly, “Yeah, no problem.” All he could think about as he followed music up the stairs was how _mad_ , if this all worked out, their next Christmas was going to be.

(o0o0o0o0)

               When the doctor pushed the door open, he found Sherlock where he always composed, right in front of the window, morning light reflecting off the shiny wood of his violin. He still was wearing the same clothes as he had been the day before, a fact that John was equally fascinated and repulsed by.

               _You shouldn’t care, because you’re his friend._

Obviously, both reactions were a little bit impolite, but no one could read _his_ mind, and John was still completely nonplussed by the fact that Sherlock Holmes was _shagging_ Jim Moriarty. Or was he? He’d never seemed interested _before_ , except Irene Adler… _maybe._ God, John didn’t want to think about it, but he couldn’t stop. What he _should_ be worrying about was whether Sherlock was alright, but what was there to worry about? He’d stayed out all night on cases before, and here he was, safe and sound, playing violin.

               A bolt of fear shot through John with the image of Jim forcing Sherlock to play like a puppet, and it was because of this that he opened his mouth to speak.

               “What time did you get back?” he asked in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone.

               “We haven’t shagged, don’t worry,” came Sherlock’s monotonous reply.

               John’s jaw dropped to the floor, and without looking to see if he was about to speak, the detective continued, turning around to look at his friend.

               “You walked in here, gaped at me for about twenty seconds, around the amount of time it would have taken you to see I was wearing the same clothing as I was yesterday and jump to the most obvious deduction one could make from that, and then asked about what time I got home,” Sherlock raised a slightly caustic eyebrow, and John’s jaw dropped even further.

               “ _Obvious deduction?_ ” he asked incredulously, “What other deduction is there to-? You’re composing songs about him, Sherlock!”

               The detective visibly blushed, but kept a straight face, “Doesn’t mean we’ve been…doing anything.”

               “Oh,” John laughed, “So where were you last night then? On a case?”

               Sherlock frowned, looking genuinely angry, “I could ask you the same question.”

               The doctor thought of Mary as he felt all the blood drain from his face. Damn. Maybe he wasn’t a good liar. Eloquence meant nothing if he couldn’t keep his face blank.

               “That’s what I thought,” Sherlock snapped, “You’ve been with that girl who you so desperately wish to keep hidden from me. Likely because you think I’m capable of being corrupted by Jame—by Moriarty as though I’m some sort of a child. I don’t need you monitoring my sexual activity, despite how much you and the rest of the world seem to find it _fascinating_ that even an anomaly such as I would be able to find someone to copulate with.”

               John was sure that his jaw was going to unhinge if it dropped any lower.   

               Fuck…Sherlock had a right to be angry. John knew he would have been, had he been in the detective’s place. Everyone stops trusting you when you’re supposed to be going through what’s claimed by society to be the happiest time in your life. Plus, there was the confusion that came with learning to navigate the Bond with a partner who used to be your nemesis. Jesus, he felt like he’d spent more time patronizing Sherlock than he’d spent just _asking_ him how he was.

               Maybe…maybe it was better to do that. After all, he wasn’t saving any lives the other way, and neither was Mycroft. Just as John was about to open his mouth, however, Sherlock spoke once more, back to a more neutral tone.

               “Most of the anger wasn’t me, by the way. Apologies for that.”

               With that, the detective turned back to the window, readying his bow, and was about to start playing once more when John cut him off.

               “No, Sherlock,” the man in question turned around, eyebrows raised, “I’m the one who should be apologizing. It’s none of my business.”

               Sherlock blinked, seemingly surprised that he was actually in the right.

               “The two of you…this isn’t your fault,” John continued, running a hand through his hair, “I’m just having a hard time becoming comfortable with the fact that you’re Bonded to a…to someone who has hurt you. Hurt _countless people._ ”

               “I have mentioned on numerous occasions,” Sherlock said sternly but gently, “That I do not care for human life-”

               John wasn’t willing to listen to this again, “Yes, and look where that’s gotten you,” he interrupted, voice rising, “You were framed by a madman who—sorry,” he apologized halfheartedly when the detective’s eyes lit up with anger for his Soulmate, “But your reputation with the media is trashed, and you’re Bonded to a psychopath-”

               “Is it possible,” Sherlock pointed out, “that you don’t like this Bond because it shows you what I really am?”

               The words were like a punch to the stomach. Sherlock couldn’t mean that, could he? The detective was many things, but John found it hard to believe he was just as mad as Moriarty. Sure, he kept heads in the fridge, but it wasn’t as though he kept them as _trophies_. Not like how Moriarty had kept that kid’s shoes.

               Then again…there had been a few times on cases when Sherlock had been almost disturbingly fascinated by a murder method…

               What was he saying? This was _Sherlock._ Sherlock who watched crap telly and got angry when he couldn’t predict the ending accurately.

               Was it possible that Moriarty had that side to him, too? John wasn’t sure. He doubted it.

               The doctor huffed, crossing his arms. Sherlock started to turn around again, not needing to say a word to let John know what he was thinking.

               _That’s what I thought._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait! Ah, and John and Sherlock are fighting about the same thing again. If only John could trust his bff…but then again, would you trust Sherlock, given the circumstances? Tbh, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. But I hope you enjoyed the fluff. More is to come, of course. And we will get updated on what’s going on with Molly and Seb, hopefully. Leave me your thoughts?


	28. Saturn

               _This is mad,_ Sherlock knew it was a sensible concern, but he could only manage a halfhearted attempt at caution. After all, he cared far more about seeing James than he cared about their safety.

               Perhaps that was selfish, though. The only reason he felt a little bit sick about being out in the daylight with the criminal, rather than hidden safely in the shadows, was because of the threat of Mycroft seeing them and keeping them from one another. And even then, he only cared about James’s well being because _he_ couldn’t imagine being away from him.

               At least, that was what Sherlock told himself. It was still unnerving to think about the fact that he was developing such a close connection with yet another person, sometimes.

               Jim’s response wasn’t direct, but the detective was able to get something along the lines of ‘easier to see you in the daytime’.

               A full day had passed since the morning Sherlock had started composing for Jim. He’d gotten approximately eight hours of sleep in that time, which had been, though restful, completely dreamless. Perhaps if he’d gotten another night close with the criminal, he would have been able to hold off another meeting for just one more day. Instead, he had known minutes after waking up that he was going to _need_ Jim again. Not that he didn’t always need the criminal, but sometimes the urge to be close with him was impossible to resist.

               Maybe he was just getting weaker. More attached. More sentimental. It wasn’t that Sherlock planned to bother fighting any of those things at this point—he just found it interesting to see how quickly he fell into them.

               To avoid conflict with John, he’d left the flat early, as soon as Jim had been ready to meet. So now here he was, making his way towards the corner the criminal had named on a sunny but frigid morning, the streets just as frustratingly crowded as usual.

               Sherlock found it a little bit difficult to breath when he caught sight of James across the street. The criminal didn’t miss this, and his eyes quickly found Sherlock. There was a brief exchange of smirks before both Soulmates looked away. The detective took a breath, attempting to calm his pulse.

               _Dammit._

_Sherlock, I wouldn’t dream of ever calling you something so arbitrary as ‘cute’, but…_

_You’re feeling the exact same way!_

_Hush._

It was only after the detective was halfway across the street that he realized he had no idea how he was supposed to greet James. A handshake was far too formal, whereas a hug was just…unusual. They’d kissed already, did hugs still appear after that? He _certainly_ wasn’t going to kiss the criminal in the middle of a crowd. There would be unwanted stares and glances and he _knew_ Jim wasn’t comfortable with that sort of public display yet.

               He certainly didn’t want to appear cold. Logically, he would normally have done whatever Jim did, but the criminal was just as puzzled over the issue as he was, following his thoughts and adding little footnotes where necessary.

               Perhaps if he put on his usual show to begin with, it would come more easily.

               “You know,” Sherlock started, finally closing the distance between them, his coat flowing behind him, “It would have been easier to meet at one of our flats.”

               To the detective’s shock, Jim didn’t seem to even notice that his confidence was feigned. The criminal was too busy marveling at…everything else. Sherlock still couldn’t make sense of the fact that someone could find his eyes just as interesting as what he actually had to say.

               “I wanted to do this…” Jim’s eyes were amber in the sunlight as he tried to avoid the word he knew he needed. _Normally. Not normally. Actually, that’s what I’m afraid of. That the talking will stop and we’ll start doing boring things like kiss every time we meet. The other night was brilliant, but I don’t want—_

“Every time we meet to have an unwritten expectation,” Sherlock finished. To lighten the mood, he changed the subject. _I’m assuming you’ve dealt with Mycroft’s cameras._

 _Yes, but they’ll only be down for about half an hour_ , Jim said grumpily, _I didn’t want to risk them noticing the switched footage._

The two of them started to walk, the criminal leading them down the street he’d made temporarily invisible. It was very quickly made evident to Sherlock that the sort of casual closeness they were currently practicing was alien to both of them.

               There was a brief moment of silence in which they both paused to appreciate this fact. Sherlock Holmes and Jim Moriarty were walking down the street together, side by side, trying to resist the urge to hold hands.

               _We can’t_ , the criminal knew his reminder was unnecessary, but it was obvious from the panic that accompanied it that he felt a need to voice it, anyway.

               Sherlock looked at James curiously, suddenly intrigued once more by his partner’s fear of certain labels. The criminal hastily yet firmly locked away several memories.

               “I wouldn’t,” the detective’s tone was neutral, though he ached to be closer, “Not if you weren’t comfortable.”

               Jim nodded, not finding any reason to continue the conversation.

               “Although,” Sherlock continued, “I cannot comprehend why, if wandering eyes are an issue, you decided to do this someplace so public. If we’d met somewhere safe, alone, there wouldn’t have been cameras to disable, either.”

               The criminal frowned. It was a few steps before he answered.

               “We’re both mathematical minds. Scientific,” he explained quietly, looking straight ahead, “You know better than I that it’s best to acknowledge all variables, if an experiment is to…succeed.”

               _Ah,_ Sherlock’s thoughts clicked into place, _You’re testing if this is just intimacy. How well I can accommodate you when you’re clearly uncomfortable and anxious._

Jim cringed, and the detective felt an absurd urge to tell him it was fine, that it was _all fine_. But this was James Moriarty, and Sherlock wasn’t sure whether or not he wanted to hear things like that. Sherlock wasn’t even sure he could _say_ something like that. To anyone. Let alone Jim. It didn’t seem as though ordinary sentiments could ever be good enough for the criminal. Not that he demanded anything else, but the detective felt James _deserved_ more.

               “Sherlock,” the criminal interrupted his thoughts, looking over at Sherlock as their steps slowed slightly, “I don’t know what I want.”

               The detective was sure he could feel his heart physically contract. Jim’s stomach fluttered at Sherlock’s infatuation, not helping either of them calm their pulses.

               “Your current condition suggests otherwise,” Sherlock’s words were but a mumbled observation, but they made the criminal stop in his tracks.

               _“What?”_ James hissed, glancing around them, “I don’t-! You can’t just _say-_ ”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “Neither of us know what the bloody hell we’re doing. But you can’t deny basic biological reactions. I can feel you blush just as much as you can me.”

               _“Sherlock,_ ” the criminal’s eyes were ablaze.

               “And I would prefer, if we are to spend time with one another, that we’d spend it somewhere where we can talk freely, not surrounded by thousands of potential-”

               _“Sherlock.”_

“What?” the detective frowned. He was sure he’d just been offering a solution to the problem…

               James gave another quick glance around them before pulling them inside the nearest door to their right. Dust and the smell of old books tickled Sherlock’s nose as he allowed himself to be dragged between shelves of what must have been used books, until they were hidden in the corner of the almost empty shop. The detective wasn’t even sure he’d seen any employees when they’d walked in, but the lights were on and the door open, so…

               “Listen to me,” Jim growled, gaze boring into Sherlock’s skull in the most _pleasant_ way, “None of this can be seen by anyone. This Bond will ruin both of us, and you _know it-_ ”

               “More than a suicide pact?” Sherlock interrupted, pleased when the criminal was both baffled and furious.

               “How-? That would have been _better_ , and you know it! You know this world is too small for the both of us, and if we’re suffocated apart we most _certainly_ will be together.”

               For a moment, daggers seemed to twist inside the detective’s heart. Surely Jim didn’t mean he wished them apart again? Of course initially it would have been easier, but now that they were Bonded, well, it didn’t do much to consider hypotheticals, did it?

               “No, I don’t mean-” the criminal was hurting, old wounds aching from repeated abuse, both from their bearer and outside parties, “Sherlock, this is a mess. You know that death would be easier.” _Please tell me you understand. I can’t be the only person who thinks this._

The detective pushed away a memory. Of course he knew. Of course he understood. But now was not the time to be trusting James with these things.

               “This,” Jim continued, gesturing vaguely between them, eyes wide and vulnerable, “No one can see this. It’s a liability, Sherlock. You know no one can see us.”

               The detective was exasperated, “Then why tell me to meet you somewhere so public?”

               “I don’t…I don’t _know_ anymore!” the criminal threw his hands up, furious that he couldn’t find the words to express how he was feeling, “But as long as anyone can see us, we’re platonic. For our own good. For _my_ own good.”

               “I mentioned that you were blushing,” Sherlock said monotonously, still not able to believe that anyone as brilliant as James Moriarty could behave so tremendously stupid. He could understand _John_ caring about the opinions of strangers, but Jim?

               “Are you Catholic?” the detective asked on impulse.

               “What?” Jim grimaced, “No.”

               “Just checking,” Sherlock said simply.

               “Do you think-? Oh,” the criminal shook his head, “This is _not_ what you think it is, Sherlock Holmes.”

               “Funny,” the detective cocked an eyebrow, still amused by the way it warmed Jim’s torso, despite his irritation, “It seems to be.”

               The criminal gaped at him

               “Unless there is an alternate explanation you’re keeping from me.”

               “Of _course_ there is,” Jim hissed.

               A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, “So you don’t mind then.”

               “Of _course_ I don’t mind. How could I-?”

               Jim was silenced when the detective, smug and mischievous as a troublemaking _child_ , decided to close the distance between them and kiss him.

               For a moment, the criminal was taken in by the euphoria that always came with a kiss from Sherlock. Then the reality of what was actually happening hit him, and he scrambled away from the detective, wide eyed and breathing heavily.

               Sherlock _almost_ felt sorry for James, but there was a point that needed to be made.

               Fury blackened Jim’s gaze, and the criminal opened his mouth to speak, razor sharp words on the tip of his tongue.      

               He hesitated, opening and closing his mouth a few times as he read Sherlock’s thoughts. Finally, he huffed, turning away and mumbling something that sounded like ‘a biased demonstration’.

               Sherlock sighed, taking a leisurely step towards Jim, who turned to look up at him with guarded eyes.

               “See?” the detective murmured, “Nothing happened.”

               “That’s because,” Jim grumbled, glancing around, “No one _saw us._ This proves absolutely nothing except-”

               Sherlock couldn’t resist silencing him with another kiss, enjoying the way the criminal’s heart seemed to both calm and jump a little bit when their lips touched.

               _Stop doing that!_ Jim broke away, and Sherlock smirked at him gently, making a few of the lines in the criminal’s forehead smooth

               “You know it’s true,” Jim locked eyes with the detective, “No matter if we’re recognized or not. It’s all unwanted attention. They’ll ruin it for us.”

               Sherlock wasn’t sure what to say to that. He knew the criminal was only speaking because of some past trauma, but the point stood.

               Almost. Was it right to push Jim out of his comfort zone? Wasn’t that asking for some kind of eventual snap? Then again, John would likely come round eventually, and the detective was _so_ tired of loneliness…

               _Better to be lonely than hurt,_ the criminal reasoned.

               _Being lonely isn’t entirely pleasant, either._

“That’s why we have this,” Jim slowly lifted his Marked hand, fingertips barely brushing against the detective’s shoulder, as though he wasn’t sure what to do with himself. Eventually, after another subtle glance around them, he wrapped his arms around Sherlock.

               It was a baffling gesture. To see Jim Moriarty be so unsure about something was…incredible. The detective wondered when the last time had been when the criminal had ever been unsure. Whenever it had been, it was probably locked away somewhere with every other memory of fear, behind that unreachable door Jim always steered Sherlock away from.

               _You want to be afraid,_ the detective realized, slowly folding his arms around Jim, though they still stood a ways apart, capable of eye contact, _You miss it. Yet you dread it just as much. Your prison was partially self created._

The criminal glared, _You’re a damn poet._

 _Hardly,_ Sherlock himself was unsure of how he felt about public displays of affection, especially when they _could_ pose a danger to Jim’s safety, so he decided any further argument would have to wait until more data was available.

               Jim sighed heavily, fingers repositioning themselves on Sherlock’s back.

               _No one’s here, still,_ he hinted.

               The detective, with a thousand thoughts still racing through his mind, pulled Jim into a third kiss.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian slammed the car door shut behind him, stepping out of the vehicle that had just begun to get warm once he’d reached his destination.

               _Three down,_ the sniper thought, somewhat grim.

               It was pointless to lie to himself. He was pissed. He was fucking pissed at himself, and he wished it didn’t run as deeply to his core as it did.

               Anger could be fun, sometimes. If it was a little scratch on the surface, it could come and go like a lit match; a quick blaze that left him feeling like he’d gotten something off his chest. This was something else. This was venom, and he knew it was streaming from something far less harmless than simple ‘anger’.

               Bitterness. That was the word. He was fucking bitter, because once again, Sebastian was alone. Alone except for his guns and his job. And a thick wallet he couldn’t even spend because of how much he had to move.

               Molly had stopped speaking to him. And Sebastian wasn’t sure he’d ever felt this sort of ache before, after a breakup. Not that they’d ever been together. They were just another almost. But before, he’d always been able to pass the girl off as a bitch, or tell himself that there were a thousand of them in the world. A few drinks and a hookup later, he’d always felt better. Now he just felt empty. Maybe it was because he didn’t have the friends to back him up this time.

               God, and they were all probably still back in America right now, off at colleges they’d gotten football scholarships to, going to frat parties and forgetting their stupid fucking friend who wasn’t good at anything except tearing things down.

               Suddenly, it was simply too much to have to hold his body upright. Sebastian leaned against the roof of his car, head bowed. The empty skeletons of buildings around him didn’t do much to protect him from the freezing wind, which bit at his ears and ruffled his hair.

               Maybe the reason he missed Molly so much was because he was desperate. He had so few people in his life that this average girl, who watched Glee and knew more about politics than he did, seemed like the one that got away. But did it even matter why he’d liked her? Molly made him happy and made him feel like he was moving forward, not just plateauing.

               She made him care about more than just guns. Sebastian hadn’t felt anything when he’d pulled the trigger three times that day, sending unnamed people Moriarty had pulled into his web toppling to the ground like trees in a forest. All he could think about was how horrified Molly had seemed when she’d learned about who he was and what he did. She’d been so _disgusted_ and it made Sebastian disgusted with himself.

               He’d never really thought about what he did. But now it felt like his whole world was crashing around him. Was he wrong about _everything?_

Sebastian hated himself. He hated how selfish he was, and he hated how he’d _had_ to be selfish. He hated that he wasn’t sure where he was in the right, if anywhere, anymore. He hated everything. He’d never understood what people talked about when they said they felt hollow, like there was nothing good coming for them in life, like the world was fading to gray. Now he understood.

               God, and he missed when things had been fucking handed to him. He still got that, but now instead of coming from people he loved, it came from people he killed.

               At least he was productive. What did he have left but to do his job? In fact, he didn’t even care about being careful around Moriarty anymore. He had nothing to lose. Maybe it was time to start taking risks again.

               The sniper took a weary breath. It felt like he wasn’t taking in air at all. Maybe that was just the cold. Pulling out his cell, he dialed Moriarty’s number.

               The criminal answered on the third ring, waiting for Sebastian to speak first.

               “Boss, it’s me,” the sniper said monotonously, “I’m just calling to confirm that I took Raul, Dante, and Tony to lunch today.”

               _“Stop it,”_ Jim’s voice sounded like he wasn’t talking directly into the receiver.

               “Sorry, Boss?”   

               _“…Apologies, Sebastian,”_ the criminal’s voice sounded much clearer now, if slightly strained, _“Though I am unsure why…why…”_

               To Sebastian’s astonishment and _horror_ , it almost sounded like Moriarty _chuckled_ before finally gathering himself.

               _“I am unsure why you’ve decided to tell me this when you still haven’t talked with the rest of them,”_ his voice hitched slightly at the end, and something clicked in Sebastian’s head.

               _Jesus Christ, he’s probably got his boyfriend in between his knees right now. He’s probably got ten people going at him right now. Fucking Christ._

But this was Sebastian’s life now, wasn’t it? He’d just have to learn to deal with this sort of thing. Hardened criminals didn’t have time for morality.

               “Just wanted to give you an update.”

               _“Christ, Sherlock…Yes, thank you, Sebastian. Though I’m not sure why I couldn’t be informed about this via text message.”_

Jim’s breath audibly hitched, followed by a distant sounding slap. Sebastian would have been horrified, had this not been accompanied by a muffled, offended ‘ow’.

               In spite of himself, the sniper was almost amused. The thought of Sherlock Holmes getting slapped wasn’t an entirely unpleasant one. The bastard deserved it.

               “I was just taking initiative, Boss,” Sebastian explained lamely.

               _“Mmh,”_ Jim’s voice sounded strained again, _“Yes, that is divine. So long as the necessary people are taken out—ah, to lunch, then you can do as you please. Now isn’t the best ti—”_ the criminal sounded like he was biting back a noise of some sort, _“It’s not the best time. Keep doing what you’re doing. Payment comes after the job is done, remember. Take care.”_

The line clicked off, and Sebastian was left to wonder what it said that he had less close relationships than even Moriarty.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Do you think you’re funny?” Jim snapped at Sherlock, voice still lowered for fear of discovery. Sebastian probably thought the criminal was weak now. He probably thought that Jim was less than him. God, this was _exactly_ why they needed to keep these things private—

               The detective smirked, eyes playful. Jim’s pulse leapt and he blushed, looking away. _Why_ did it have to be _that_ look?

               The criminal sighed, pressing his lips together and wishing he had a scarf to cover up whatever marks Sherlock had undoubtedly left on his skin.

               “Borrow mine,” Sherlock started to unwrap the blue cloth from around his neck, and Jim’s heart almost stopped. They were _not_ going to start borrowing clothing.

               “No, Sherlock, don’t-!”

               Too late. The criminal caught a whiff of musk, tobacco, and cologne when Sherlock wrapped the scarf around him. Jim felt frozen in place, and he was aware that he was blushing perhaps more than he ever had as an adult. He didn’t look at the detective until he finished, and wool scratched at his slightly wet neck as he slowly forced himself to turn.

               “Don’t do that again,” Jim glared, for the sake of pride remaining angry. He _did_ think he had a valid point.

               “Just a bit of fun,” Sherlock’s smirk didn’t reach his eyes. He was starting to realize the criminal was genuinely upset. His ‘fun’ hadn’t affected Jim the way he’d wanted it to.

               Jim bit back his own smirk at the fading purple marks on the detective’s neck, commanding himself to stay focused.

               “I don’t want,” the criminal crossed his arms, voice edged, “my employees to think I’m some sort of…weakling. That’s the entire reason I’ve had to get a new first in command so quickly. I lost loyalty where it mattered.”

               “And the only way to ensure loyalty is through fear?” Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, turning his collar up to cover his hickies.

               Jim was incredulous, “Yes! How else do you suggest I gain it? Through _love_? _Acceptance?”_

Sherlock snorted, “In your line of work? Of course not,” he looked away, “I was curious whether or not you’d ever considered it.”

               “It’s a pointless thing to consider,” the  criminal snapped, suddenly grumpy, “And I’m not gay, for the record, but most people seem to think there are two options, so if you don’t mind I’d rather you _didn’t_ kiss me when I’m talking to an employee-”

               “Yes, yes,” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “So as to ensure that you’re not perceived as ‘my faggot’. Although I feel if you cannot inspire fear or respect without hiding than perhaps you don’t deserve it at all. You say they don’t understand. Make them. You have endless power yet you don’t bother to use it to your advantage outside of more masks.”

               Jim blinked, unable to believe what he was hearing. _How_ could Sherlock possibly understand-?

               “I understand perfectly,” the detective moved past the criminal, “And perhaps I would more if you stopped donning masks for the one person you _know_ would accept you without them.”

               “That’s not-!”

               “And for the record,” Sherlock called over his shoulder, leaving the shop, “I’m not gay, either!”

               Jim was still frozen in place for ten seconds after the detective left, heart pounding. Sherlock didn’t understand. If he would just _listen_ , then he’d-

               _How the bloody hell am I supposed to listen when you keep so much from me?_

_You keep just as much from me!_

_Mine is hardly so intrusive. ‘Don’t kiss me when we’re in public.’ Do you know how childish you sound?_

_‘I need to kiss you at all times’ doesn’t exactly sound adult, either!_

_I never asked for that!_

_I asked you to stop!_

_Because you were afraid!_

_Why is that such a bad reason?_

_It’s boring! You’re not supposed to feel that way!_

There was an unspoken last part that seemed to crush Jim’s breath from his chest. _You weren’t supposed to feel pain._

 _I’m sorry,_ the criminal spat, _That I didn’t turn out to be what you wanted. You’re such a hypocrite. All you love about me is my masks anyway, yet you urge me to take them off. You have unspoken expectations that I’ll be what I pretend to be, underneath._

_I don’t know what you are underneath the mask! How the bloody hell am I supposed to know what I want?_

Jim crossed and uncrossed his arms, seething and hating how good Sherlock’s scarf smelled around his neck. What a stupid damn ordinary argument to be having. ‘Be yourself, James.’ Why the fuck did Sherlock Holmes have to say that? How the hell was he supposed to command respect while he was kissing Sherlock? Did the detective not _care_ about how dangerous it would be to do that? ‘Just wave your magic wand, James, and the whole criminal underworld will respect you regardless of your bloody sexuality.’ Yes, that would work swimmingly.

               Oh, God, what if Sebastian tried to hurt Sherlock, now? What if he started to unravel threads of the web, bit by bit, without Jim’s noticing? What if everything collapsed underneath Jim and _God_ he could taste blood and he was _not_ going back to being weak. He needed to distance himself, and he needed to keep a closer watch on Moran, and he needed to practice more restraint when near Sherlock. No more of this ‘Soulmates’ rubbish. If they saw each other it would be behind closed, locked doors, and that would be that. Somewhere no one could see them-

               “Oh, no, did ‘e leave ya?”

               Jim’s mouth went dry, and he spun around to face a dark haired, heavyset girl in gothic clothing giving him a disgustingly sympathetic look.

               “Ah, no, we’re not actually-”

               “Oh, don’t fuss about all that,” she waved him off, stepping behind the counter, “We don’t get a lot of business this time of day, so me and my coworkers ‘ave been watching you two.”

               The criminal’s jaw dropped open, “You’ve been… _watching us?_ How many of you are there?!” That wasn’t a normal thing for teenagers to do now, was it? _Watch_ other couples?

               “Oh, don’t worry about it,” she infuriatingly waved him off again, not in the least bit put off by his anger, “Just a few. You should go after ‘im, ya know. We all think you’re cute together.”

               Jim was, quite literally, speechless. He wasn’t sure he’d ever met a more oblivious human in his entire life. Except maybe Sherlock.

               _Sherlock._

“I’m not looking for your input,” he sneered, and to his further annoyance, she only shrugged.

               “Alright, but we _totally_ ship the both of ya back there…”

               “You _what_ us?”

               “Ship ya. You’d be very cute in a relation—holy shit! Is that a Mark?”

               Jim wanted to turn invisible. Maybe he should just walk out. It wasn’t as though _she_ had any concern for social norms.

               “Yes,” he studied her, “It is.”

               “Well, now I _know_ you’ve got to make up with ‘im!”

               “Do tell how.”

               “Oh, silly!” she slapped a hand on the counter, making Jim wince, “You know Soulmates _never_ really break up! Been hearin’ that from storybooks since I was born. Plus, you’ve still got ‘is scarf!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               It was five o clock before Sherlock finally made it back to 221B. He had plenty of practice with roaming London, fuming about his problems, a skill that had not diminished with age.

               Of course, it was difficult to hide from personal problems when they literally shared a mind with you.

               So, he’d spent the majority of his day feeding James anger and having it fed straight back to him. However, as the winter sky began to dim and Sherlock started to get closer to home, he noticed the criminal’s anger ebbing, regardless of how much the detective wanted to remain upset.

               God, it was bloody stupid, but he seemed to remember having a reason for being distraught. He _hated_ how quickly it was starting to seem insignificant, but even as he thought this, with every step forward he could feel Jim’s anger cooling, replaced by a pleasant calm.

               Well…that was odd. Sherlock had been making a point to block the majority of the criminal’s thoughts from his mind, save for general irritation, but now he wished he’d known what had tempered Jim’s emotions so quickly.

               …why couldn’t _he_ do that? Was he that inept that he was incapable of calming his own _Soulmate_? Why did he feel obligated to do that? Oh, _God_ , he really was getting attached.

               Sherlock felt a little pang of loneliness. He wished he wasn’t quite so dependent, but he missed James. He wanted to apologize. It was…possible he’d been a tad too pushy, regardless of whether the criminal’s discomfort stemmed from ignorance.

               As he made his way up the stairs to the flat, the detective mulled over possible ways he could patch things up with Jim. The criminal didn’t seem to be paying attention, whether consciously or not, Sherlock was appreciative, but that didn’t make the task itself much easier. Was James even expecting an apology? Was that too ordinary a thing to do? If Sherlock hadn’t known better, he might have said so, but the criminal seemed the type to appreciate sentiments, probably more than the detective.

               It was difficult for Sherlock to remember the last time he’d made a legitimate apology to someone. It might’ve been Molly, when he’d embarrassed her at the Christmas party a year or so ago.

               _Forgive me, James-_

Sherlock scrapped that. The criminal would know the words were recycled.

               _I shouldn’t have pushed you when you didn’t-_

Eh. That one was a little too condemning. And it assumed he knew how James was feeling. Which he _technically_ did, but this was all about principle, wasn’t it?

               Sherlock pushed open the door, stomach growling, and shivered. God, it didn’t feel any warmer inside than it did out! Was the heat working? He’d have to look at that after he found something to eat. Wasn’t as if he had any cases going, so he could afford it.           

               _You’ve still got my scarf—_

Christ, no. That just made him sound like a git, didn’t it?

               Someone cleared their throat, bringing Sherlock out of his thoughts and into the depressing reality that was not one, but two people glaring at him.

               He frowned at Molly Hooper, who stood with a steely gaze, arms crossed, next to John, who looked less surprised than pissed.

               After a moment of silence, Sherlock decided that they were probably waiting for him to speak.

               “…Molly. Good to see you,” he nodded with a tight lipped smile, and started to make his way past her with crossed fingers. He’d just started to think he was safe when she grabbed him by the arm with an iron grip, forcing him to stop in his tracks.

               Damn. So close.

               “Does your phone not work?” John asked indignantly, “Molly’s been here since four, Sherlock. I’ve tried to call and-”

               “My phone works fine,” Sherlock sighed, “I turned it off.”

               “Turned it off?” Molly, with surprising strength, spun the detective to face her, “You went out with Jim Moriarty and _turned your phone off?_ Are you trying to get killed?”

               Sherlock wanted to lay down. Instead he turned to John, “You _told_ her?”

               “She _showed up here_ ,” John said through gritted teeth. The detective could have _sworn_ he saw a glint of sympathy in his friend’s eyes.

               “Sebastian Moran told me,” Molly sounded on the verge of hysterics, “He told me about you and,” she looked from Sherlock’s Mark back to his face, “ _him_.”

               Bloody Moran. Of _course_ he told her. Sherlock should have known better than to trust an infatuated teenager with such touchy information. But that teenager _was_ Jim’s first in command. _How_ he had secured that position, the detective had _no_ idea.

               “Did he?” Sherlock kept his tone neutral.

               “This isn’t a joke!” Molly persisted, “Sebastian _works_ for Jim, and the fact that you trust _him_ as well as your Soulmate makes _no sense_ at all!”

               Sherlock and John stopped to ponder this. It wasn’t a terrible point, but what choice had they had? The detective needed to keep Mycroft at bay.

               “I mean,” Molly lowered her voice, “You have no choice with Moriarty anymore, but…but that doesn’t mean you have to suddenly just…start going around the whole criminal underworld, making deals and bargains, and-”

               “I did it to keep Mycroft off my arse, alright?” Sherlock interrupted, watching Molly’s face relax slightly.

               “So…?”

               “He wants to sedate James indefinitely. Ruin my mind and essentially steal Jim’s life from him. I convinced Moran to feed Mycroft false information.”

               “…Oh.”

               “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” John asked cautiously.

               “I can barely tell you I’ve spent time with James without receiving an introductory lesson on the basics of morality, and you think I’m going to tell you about a bargain I made with one of his _employees?_ ”

               John’s expression softened, “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m so-”

               “You don’t have to say anything,” the detective stopped his friend midsentence, “Boring discussion to have, anyway.”

               There was a moment of silence, which Molly was the first to break.

               “Have you been alright, then?” she asked Sherlock quietly, “I know Lestrade’s been working on sorting everything out at Scotland.”

               “Divine,” the detective wasn’t even sure how serious he was being, “Though you should know this is a secret to most. Lestrade knows. Mycroft knows. Moran knows.”

               “Not even,” Molly whispered, “Mrs. Hudson?”

               John and Sherlock shook their heads.

               “And it has to stay that way,” the doctor added solemly, “Until something changes drastically.”

               “Oh, Sherlock,” Molly made as if to hug him and, in a panic, Sherlock visibly stiffened, causing her to back off, “Sorry, sorry. But, you know I’ll be here to help, right?”

               Sherlock studied her, and John babbled something incoherent about ‘you’re far too kind’. The detective wished the conversation could end so that he could figure out what to say to Jim.

               As if on cue, the criminal’s silent attention turned to Sherlock, though a good deal less edged than it had been earlier. Jim seemed vaguely aware of and intrigued by Molly’s presence, but didn’t seem to be listening in quite so closely that he retained any detail of the conversation. He seemed to be in the middle of doing something else, Sherlock decided. Probably multitasking.

               “…Sherlock?” Molly asked, slightly unsure. Damn. Maybe the detective needed to work on _his_ multitasking. He met John’s eyes briefly before Molly spoke again.

               “Oh, sorry! You were probably talking to him, weren’t you? Do you have a strong Bond? You just looked a bit blank for a second, and…” she started to trail off, twisting her hands together nervously.

               “Yes…” John answered, “They were lucky. A lot of Bond strain took place before they could finally…” he gestured vaguely, “you know.”

               “Oh, but that never ends well!” Molly exclaimed, horrified, “You could have ended up with brain damage!”

               “Was a risk I was willing to take,” Sherlock mumbled, making sure to put emphasis on the correct words. He couldn’t say, even if now he was offered an opportunity to break the Bond, with certainty of success, that he would be able to take it.

               Something twisted in Jim’s heart. Hm. So someone _was_ listening, then.

               _Problem?_

_Certainly not._

“You’re doing it again,” to the detective’s surprise, John was half grinning in amusement, “You’re bloody awful at subtlety, Sherlock.”

               The detective huffed quietly.

               “It’s so fascinating!” Molly glowed, “I’ve never met anyone with a Bond that strong before, that they could actually talk to one another. Long while back a friend of a friend had emotions, but things always got so messy when they fought and then they ended up ruining a wedding-”

               When she realized she wasn’t going to get more than two blank stares and a semi interested nod from John, Molly cut herself off.

               “Well, time I left then, is it?” she started towards the door.

               “Oh, Molly, you know you can-” John began, and Sherlock stepped to his side, delivering a swift but effective kick to the foot. The doctor shot him a look that said _behave yourself_.

               “No, no,” Molly shook her head, aware that staying would only mean more awkwardness for all of them, “Ah, I’ve got some…things to tend to. But you stay safe. Give me a ring if you need anything!”

               “What about not getting myself killed?” the detective asked suddenly.

               Molly looked down, “…Oh. Well…he was kind to me when we were dating, even though he needn’t have been, and I think he probably likes you more anyway. Besides, you’re Soulmates. You know that sort of thing doesn’t happen by accident.”

               Sherlock and John watched the door shut in silence, and finally, the doctor spoke.

               “You know, she brings up a good point,” he suggested quietly, “What happens when you two get into a fight? And don’t say you won’t, because all couples do, no matter how bloody logical-”

               “We fought this morning,” the detective reported nonchalantly, making John raise his eyebrows.

               “You-? So you _were_ with him?”

               “Of course I was. It was obvious enough for you to assume, earlier.”

               “Well…” John mused, “It _was_ bloody obvious. Were you two fighting just now?”

               Sherlock worried his lip in between his teeth, “Mm…don’t think so.” _Were we?_

_Come to your room._

The detective blinked in surprise. Don’t blush don’t blush don’t blush.

               “…Do I _want_ to know?” John flawlessly read Sherlock’s facial expression. Of _all_ the correct deductions he could make…

               “Ah…” the detective stammered, “It’s not what you think-” Was James in his room? _His room? God, James was in his room._

               “Sherlock, I’m going to try very hard _not_ to think about it,” John raised his hands in surrender, “My date cancelled, so I’m going to order in. Do you want anything? It’s bloody freezing in here and I could use something hot.”

               The detective raised an eyebrow, and John rolled his eyes.

               “ _Christ_ , you’re a child, Sherlock.”

               _Speed would be appreciated_ , James thought earnestly, spiking Sherlock’s pulse.

               “Later, maybe,” the detective waved John off, starting towards his room. If John had seen even a glimpse of the smirk spreading on Sherlock’s face, Sherlock could only pray it would be assumed he was still being childish.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh so much has happened! First fight, maybe James making a little bit of progress with his issues, Sebastian being a sad little ignorant koala, Sherlock making up with John a little bit and perhaps learning a little bit about what consent means in a relationship. We’ll see what happens in the bedroom next chapter, now won’t we? ;)


	29. Jupiter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could keep editing this for literally years but I'm putting it out now.

               Sherlock walked into his room a little too quickly, unaware of the dark eyes watching him. Jim bit down on a finger, trying not to laugh.

               The detective frowned, glancing over the room once, twice, three times; to be sure he wasn’t missing anything. It was amusing watching him work through the possibilities.

               _Not here. Some kind of trick? Closet? No. Too full and too obvious for James. Window?_

The possibility was discarded because, according to Sherlock, Jim was not capable of climbing his way into a two story window. The criminal almost lost it at that point, and his light mood coaxed its way onto the detective’s face in the form of a smirk. His eyes glittered as he searched the room again, slowly.

               _Where are you? I’m got a flash of this room, so you must be here…?_ Sherlock was fishing for both hints and reassurance that he was not, in fact, being played.

               _Sherlock,_ Jim was incredulous, _you’re a_ detective _..._

               _You’re being childi-_

Sherlock’s eyes locked onto Jim’s through the bars of the air vent.

               _Are you_ kidding _me?_

               It was starting to physically pain the criminal to suppress his laughter.

               The detective’s face was twisted in between one of thinning patience and incredible amusement as he stepped closer to James, staring up at the criminal and wondering _how_ the _hell_ he was going to get down from there without John hearing.

               To be quite frank, Jim had been hoping the detective would think up a solution to that problem.

               _You turned the heat off so you could…?_ Sherlock couldn’t even finish the sentence, it was so bloody ridiculous.

               _It’s embarrassing how confusing this rather simple concept is for you._

 _Simple-?_ the detective raised his eyebrows, _You_ do _know we have a door, correct?_

James grinned down at Sherlock, pleased with how the gesture, even when obscured by the grate between them, could make the detective’s pulse spike.

               _Holds sentimental value. And you_ do _like complicated things._

Sherlock blinked at the unexpectedly warm statement, remembering the way James had reacted to that exact preference of his, weeks ago.

               _“You always want everything to be clever!”_ James had spat the words to shame Sherlock for the one thing he’d always prided himself on. Now he was using them to build the detective up.

               _Oh, fuck,_ Sherlock cursed to himself, and Jim took the opportunity to bring the conversation back on track.

               _And Molly was in the way._

 _So you’re not…?_ the detective was unsure what word to use. Angry? That seemed like he’d taken their argument too seriously. Upset? That made it sound like he hadn’t taken it seriously enough.

               For some reason, Sherlock’s lack of clarity on the subject was comforting to Jim.

               _We’ll talk once I’ve gotten down._

If _you get down._

 _I’m sure you’ll figure something out,_ the criminal smirked.

               Indeed, Sherlock did figure something out, but it mostly consisted of giving John a sudden and elaborate order for what he wanted for takeout (approved by Jim, of course), and using a spoon to unscrew the four bolts holding the grate in place, all whilst trying not to laugh as the criminal stuffed a fist in his mouth and snickered.

               _Shut up,_ the detective cursed as he stepped off the chair he’d been standing on, setting the vent cover on the floor and pushing the chair aside, _We need to hurry, and John won’t be ordering forever._

Jim was slightly entranced by Sherlock’s eyes.

               _JAMES._

               The criminal blinked, _Apologies. Ah, how do you want to…?_

 _I suppose I’ll just…_ Sherlock reached his arms up to Jim, palms open. The criminal pondered the intimacy of the gesture briefly before reaching out himself, hands gripping the detective’s biceps, and then, on second thought, his shoulders, sending a jolt of nerves and excitement through both of them. Jim was still entranced by the fact that he held Sherlock, in the flesh, in his hands. They’d done so much _more_ than this, but the detective was still fascinated by the criminal’s hair, for some unfathomable reason,     as though he’d never seen anything more interesting. Jim was still nonplussed by the eyes staring back at him despite the fact that he’d seen what they looked like consumed by desire, and _dammit, they were staring at each other again._

               Sherlock and Jim suddenly shared an academic interest in the carpet, and, after a moment of silence, the detective, all business, started to pull the criminal out of the vent and into the bedroom.

               The first 2/3 of the operation went smoothly, but legs and feet were far more complicated than either had anticipated. When it was easy enough, Jim wrapped his arms completely around Sherlock’s shoulders, bringing them even _closer_ than before. Unfortunately, the detective had underestimated greatly how much his arch nemesis weighed in entirety.

               _Oh shut up._

_Move your feet!_

Jim, trying to right himself, pulled one foot out, but as a result put _more_ weight on Sherlock, who could no longer hold himself upright.

               _Don’t you_ dare _…_

_Dammit!_

The criminal fell hard on top of Sherlock with a disturbingly loud ‘ _thud’_ , knocking all the wind out of the detective, who ended up flat on his back.

               John grew disturbingly quiet, and it seemed as though both James and Sherlock’s hearts stopped temporarily.

               “Yeah. Yes, that’s correct. Thank you.”

               The consultants’ breath left them in a wheeze as they heard the faint sound of a phone being hung up, and Jim had just begun to appreciate Sherlock’s warmth underneath him when the detective rudely threw him off and onto the carpet. He’d have been offended if it weren’t for Sherlock’s alarm.

               _Hide. Need to ensure John won’t come in._

Jim silently obeyed, making himself cozy next to the side of the bed farthest from the door as Sherlock exchanged words with John.

               Disinterested. Casual. Yes, yes, _yes._

               _Doesn’t suspect anything_ , Sherlock reported, _But for safety’s sake, I’m going to kill time out here until the food arrives._

_Mm. I’ll just make myself useful then, shall I?_

_Don’t break anything._

_I’m going to put the vent cover back up, idiot._

Sherlock was silent, but Jim felt the need to add, _With the spoon you so artfully used to take it down._

_Oh, shut it._

Jim was starting to think for them, that was a phrase of endearment. It certainly went well with how Sherlock’s body still was tingling wherever the criminal had touched him.

               Jim had been on top of him, and the fact that both of them were equally flustered made the criminal feel strangely powerful.

               More powerful, in fact, than a lot of other things.

               Sherlock muttered an excuse to John about eating in his room and going to bed early, and to the criminal’s astonishment, the doctor seemed to buy it.

               _Either that, or he knows you’re here and doesn’t want to talk about it,_ the detective thought as he shut the door behind him, an obscene amount of takeout in tow that Jim raised an eyebrow at.

               _How blind would he have to be to not know I’m here? You never eat!_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, stretching out on the bed between them, _Untrue. Besides, now I’ve got to listen to_ you _complain whenever I don’t do it._

Jim watched him balance containers of food, opening them carefully, _I can’t concentrate when I’m hungry,_ he feigned nonchalance, _and now I can’t concentrate when you’re hungry, either._

The detective looked up at James, picking up on the sudden tension in the criminal’s thoughts. He frowned.

               _You can sit down, you know,_ Sherlock suggested carefully. Slowly, Jim lowered himself next to the detective, back against the headboard and takeout in between them. The containers of food warmed the criminal’s legs through his jeans, which he’d changed into before coming to 221B. He assumed he looked more ‘Richard Brook’ than ‘Jim Moriarty’ this evening, hair free of product and dressed so casually.

               _Those jeans are designer,_ the detective pointed out, popping what looked vaguely like a piece of meat into his mouth. Jim grabbed a similar looking piece before answering, eyes sparkling with mischief.

               _And how, pray tell, did you notice that?_

Sherlock went delightfully red, and Jim covered his mouth to keep from spitting while he laughed silently.

               _I wasn’t…I wasn’t_ looking _at you!_ the detective stammered, only further infuriated when James kept wheezing.

               _What’s that you always say, Holmes? ‘Once you’ve eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however_ completely unsurprising _, must be the truth.’_

Sherlock flicked a noodle at Jim, and it stuck to his face. The criminal’s gaze was suddenly drained of all mirth, replaced by something edged with razors.

               _Oh, no,_ James shook his head, a dangerously subtle gesture that the detective was sure many had been on the receiving end of moments before their death, _No, we are not doing this. You’re a child._

 _Is your hoodie cashmere?_ Sherlock teased, smirking again. Jim was vaguely reminded of something not so funny, and the detective immediately stopped, despite once more being beaten to the memory by the criminal, who quickly locked it away again.

               _No,_ Jim speared a vegetable he couldn’t identify, _and it’s still worth more than all of Watson’s sweaters put together._

 _Is that because it’s expensive, or because you’re wearing it?_ Sherlock and Jim were now facing one another.

               _Honey, it’s expensive_ because _I’m wearing it._

 _Christ, James,_ Sherlock sat back against the headboard again, facing the lone window in the room. Jim vaguely wondered if he should close the blinds, but looked to the detective for guidance.

               Sherlock’s jaw dropped almost imperceptivity when their eyes met, his breath catching in his throat slightly.

               _No. Don’t close it._

Jim studied the detective expectantly.

               _Why did you come here?_ Sherlock cut right to the chase, _That’s not to say I don’t want you…want you here._

The criminal licked his lips, nodding thoughtfully, _I came to apologize._

Sherlock frowned, _But I should be-_

 _No, Sherlock,_ without warning, Jim took the detective’s Marked hand in his, causing Sherlock to gasp quietly. Though they would never get quite the same rush of pleasure from contact _alone_ ever again, the softened pleasure when Jim’s Mark met Sherlock’s was still enough to catch the detective off guard.

               Involuntarily, Jim leaned in closer.

               _I pushed you,_ Sherlock looked down at their palms.

The criminal looked at the detective until he raised his eyes again.

               _Normally we go for that kind of thing,_ Jim twisted their hands together, a dance of the simplest kind.

               _And you,_ Sherlock’s thoughts held just a touch of confusion, _don’t go for that, then?_

 _Banter is fine, but…_ Jim trailed off, _I was afraid. And you didn’t listen to me._

The criminal watched Sherlock’s chest rise and fall, wondering if perhaps this was an absurd request to make of the detective; if perhaps they were not so similar at all and he was being weak and ruining their game.

               “James,” Sherlock’s voice was barely a whisper, and over his own heartbeat the criminal could barely hear the second half of his statement, “Stop.”

               Jim’s eyes were darkening in the quickly dimming light, and the sky outside was tinged with red and orange.

               _I will…try? Not try. Do my best to listen,_ the detective pledged, thumb tracing patterns over Jim’s hand.

               _Thank you. I apologize for reacting the way I did._

The criminal had to wait a moment for Sherlock to get over his shock that, yes, Jim Moriarty was apologizing to him.

               _What changed your mind?_ the detective inquired, studying his Soulmate.

               Jim frowned in confusion before he remembered the goth girl from the shop.

               _People saw us,_ the criminal was suddenly happy that he had Sherlock’s hand to hold, _and it was annoying. I still felt like they saw us as something other than human._

Blue eyes went unblinking, and Jim sighed.

               _But she was completely benign. Benign and unbelievably stupid. She didn’t intend her ignorance in a malicious way. She didn’t intend it_ any _way. It’s called ignorance for a reason._

Sherlock hadn’t realized he’d been squeezing the criminal’s hand, and he started to loosen his grip, until Jim tightened his own hold on the detective.

               _You decided it wasn’t worth it?_ Sherlock concluded.

               _Why should a lion fear sheep?_ Jim thought ominously.

               The fact of the matter was that in encountering a situation he’d wanted to avoid like the plague _without_ the results he’d feared, Jim was left to question what he was fearing in the first place.

               He didn’t want to seem weak, but there was no possible way he could be perceived as weak by anyone whose opinion mattered to him at the moment, because he’d have taken measures to ensure otherwise. If he hadn’t bothered with ensuring the opinion a person held of him was high, then why was he concerned with their opinion in the first place?

               _Because that’s not what you fear._

Jim shot Sherlock a warning glance, but the detective continued anyway.

               _Not really. It’s not about perception._

The criminal almost asked Sherlock to stop, but, with pulse quickened with the worry that he’d been deduced, that the detective had finally seen past the mask, Jim quieted his thoughts.

               _…well?_

It felt like Sherlock’s eyes were boring two holes in his skull. When the detective finally answered, his thoughts were piercing.

               _You don’t want to_ be _weak._

The face of a boy flashed through the Bond briefly, and Jim knew that _Sherlock knew_ exactly what he was talking about.

               “Say it,” Jim’s voice was a snake’s hiss.

               “Powers,” Sherlock mouthed _almost_ silently, still not breaking eye contact, “Carl Powers.”

               There was a moment of complete and utter silence. Jim felt apart from himself as the detective watched his eyes widen.

               _It wasn’t a terribly difficult connection to make,_ Sherlock continued awkwardly, _I assumed initially that it must have been something else, but he was your first murder. I should have known it had the most impact._

Jim felt like he couldn’t breathe.

               _But then, what do I know about emotion?_ The detective’s eyes were latched onto the criminal’s, rooting Jim to the bed. It was a good thing, too, because at the moment he wanted nothing more than to run far away from Sherlock, as fast as he could.

               “I can’t,” Jim breathed, starting to pull away. _I can’t do this. Let_ go _of me._

The detective loosened his grip, but didn’t comply. He studied Jim.

               _Tell me,_ Sherlock’s pupils were blown, _What did he do to you?_

Jim looked the man in front of him up and down, suddenly furious, “Tell you— _tell_ you? Do you know what you’re _talking_ about?” He wanted to shout, but his voice remained a whisper.

               _I have several ideas,_ Sherlock thought passively. The criminal felt an overwhelming urge to hit him across the face.

               _You—do you think this is going to be some spectacular story? Do you think it actually matters? Is this a game to you?_

The detective’s brow creased in confusion, _I thought that’s what we were calling it._

Realizing his blunder, Jim tried to pull away again, and his mouth twisted into a snarl when Sherlock tightened his grip on his hand.

               _Please don’t,_ the detective pleaded.

               _I can’t do this._

_Don’t let fear rule you._

_I am_ not _afraid of anything, Sherlock Holmes._

_Then you have no reason to leave._

All expression suddenly was wiped from Jim’s face, _I’m leaving because I don’t want anything more than a game. I was testing you and you—_

_Nonsense._

_Sherlock!_

_I won’t,_ the detective resigned, _I won’t push it. Not until you want to talk about it._

Jim breathed, letting Sherlock run his thumb over the back of his hand.

               Right. They had had this argument dozens of times before.

               _It’s emotional,_ the criminal made a small move towards where he’d originally sat, watching Sherlock cautiously, _Stupid and petty._

The detective stared back, _And that means we shouldn’t discuss it?_

Well…Jim hadn’t thought of that. He wasn’t sure he fully understood. Was Sherlock telling him he didn’t _have_ to be interesting? How basic was that? It didn’t sound like something he wanted with the detective—it sounded ordinary. And yet…it was still Sherlock. It had never occurred to him that Sherlock might care about other aspects of him besides his mind.

               Or that anyone could. Good God, was that even possible? Jim knew _he_ hadn’t ever really cared for someone, besides Sherlock. And yet, here they were, eating takeout in Sherlock’s bedroom.

               Jim cocked his head to the side slightly, _I don’t know._

It was quickly getting dark outside, and Sherlock looked from the window to the criminal.

               _Are you staying?_

Surely he couldn’t mean—

               _Yes,_ the detective confirmed, _I mean…for the night._

Jim’s stomach did a little jump, and Sherlock looked away.

               _That’s not to say that we’ll be…_

The criminal smirked toothily, _We’ve argued far too much today for that, wouldn’t you say? Unless you’re into that sort of thing._

Sherlock rolled his eyes, quietly flustered at the topic of discussion, _You seem to be the type to make your partner work for it._

Jim’s smirk spread into a reluctant grin, _You of all people should know that._

The detective went red, suddenly thinking of faked paintings and trails of breadcrumbs, _I’m not certain I know what you’re...implying…_

 _Nothing,_ Jim was slightly surprised by Sherlock’s train of thought, but decided he didn’t care to consider its accuracy at the moment, _Nothing at all. Are you still hungry?_

 _Yes,_ Sherlock was grateful for the distraction, _We should probably eat more of this._

Jim settled himself much closer to the detective so that they were lightly pressed together, grateful for the soft warmth of Sherlock’s body against his.

               _You know,_ the criminal remarked as they started to eat again, _I daresay I have better taste in  takeout than you and John._

(o0o0o0o0)

               _Six out of ten,_ Jim critiqued as Sherlock set aside their finished food.

               The detective shook his head, making a face and wavering his hand, _Eh. Five-ish._

 _You’re too picky,_ Jim pointed out, _No wonder you never eat._

Sherlock huffed softly, _I eat. Just not when I’m on cases,_ he looked the criminal up and down, _Well, most cases._

_You wound me. Am I truly that insignificant?_

_Would you rather I—no,_ we _starve?_

Jim watched the detective pensively, _Suppose not._

Still quite nervous, Sherlock got up from the bed to throw away their food. Hopefully if John saw him going to bed early, he would copy. As soon as the doctor was asleep, it would be much safer to whisper rather than communicate silently.

               The babble of a late night talk show was audible as soon as he left his room. Sherlock made sure to walk through the kitchen so that John would see him, despite the fact that he was currently on his laptop, typing.

               Hm. New blog entry about Soulmate troubles? Something to ask about in the morning.

               Damn. Morning. Moriarty was staying the night. _Staying the night._

               _Christ, Sherlock_. _Don’t blush._ A part of the detective thought that Jim knew _exactly_ what he was doing when he said that, because the criminal was unmistakably amused when Sherlock felt his cheeks grow warm.

               “Are you okay?”

               Sherlock mentally uttered a string of profanities that even Jim was surprised by.

               _Language!_

_Oh, shut it._

The detective didn’t have to _entirely_ feign irritation as he dumped the empty food containers in the trash bin.

               “Fine.” Perfect. Only lies have detail.

               John made a face of affirmation, turning back to his laptop. Seemed they were in the clear. Sherlock made sure to shut his door a little louder than usual. He’d give it 45 minutes before John followed suit and went to bed.

               The detective turned to Jim to find the criminal raising an eyebrow at him.

               _What?_

_‘Only lies have detail?’ Seems a bit broad, doesn’t it?_

_Aren’t you supposed to be my fan?_ Sherlock cocked a brow of his own.

               _Just because I’m a fan doesn’t mean I have to agree with everything you say._

_Wouldn’t hurt if you did._

_Ha._

Something occurred to the detective when he looked Jim up and down.

               _You’ve got nothing to sleep in,_ Sherlock observed, flustered once again. God dammit, they were just clothes.

               _Oh dear,_ the criminal smirked, eyes sparkling, _Looks like I’ll have to borrow something._

Sherlock silently groaned as he walked over to his dresser, _I’m not used to this._ Bombs were one thing. Flirting was something completely different.

_Neither am I._

_Funny. I wasn’t given that impression._

_Oh,_ please,Jim crossed the room to watch the detective dig through a drawer of pajamas, _Anyone can do it. You’ve done it a few times._

Sherlock froze. Now _that_ was interesting.

               _Pray tell._

 _What?_ the criminal teased, _So you can recycle all your old material? I don’t ask much, but you should be at least a_ little _creative-_

 _Forget it,_ Sherlock resumed digging through his clothes. If he was honest with himself, it seemed anything he chose would be too large on Jim.

               _That’s fine._

 _Good,_ the detective decidedly thrust a pair of green checkered pajama pants and a white t shirt at Jim, who had to resist a very strong urge to smell them.

               Sherlock pulled out something for himself to sleep in, and turned to find the criminal watching him.

               _What?_

_That’s what I was going to ask. What now?_

Oh, God. He hadn’t even thought about this. And it wouldn’t have _seemed_ awkward if Jim hadn’t mentioned it, but now that he had, all Sherlock could see when he looked at the criminal was dark eyes and brown hair and just a hint of stubble and a _lot_ that would probably be much _more_ intriguing to look at without clothes on.

               Jim’s mind seemed to be wandering down the exact same rabbit hole, but he dragged himself out of it more quickly, blinking.

               _You’ve already seen me naked, Sherlock._

_Just the reminder I needed. Thank you, James._

Smirking ever so slightly, the criminal walked past Sherlock to close the blinds before taking his shirt off.

               If there was a way to be professional about stripping oneself of clothing, then that was how James did it. Sherlock quickly followed suit as soon as the criminal started, but they were both _clearly_ stealing glances at one another in between articles. It was strange how intimate a mere flash of skin could feel compared to actual…well…sex. Though Sherlock didn’t think either of them considered their technical first time to be a first time at all.

               They were dressed far too quickly for either consultant’s taste. With hair slightly ruffled, Jim made his way to the window to open the blinds again, and Sherlock took his still warm clothes out of his arms, setting them on a chair in the corner.

               The detective made a point of saving the image of Jim in _his_ pajamas, a size and a half too big and emphasizing his small frame, for later.

               _If you must know,_ the criminal continued, forcing himself to look away from the night sky, _Most things you say are some degree of intoxicating._

 _Oh._ Oh.

               _Primary example?_ Sherlock inquired, eager for a reference point.

               Jim’s gaze was smoldering, _…Deductions, since you ask._

The detective frowned, _Really?_

 _Well,_ Jim shrugged, _Obviously anything traditionally ‘sexy’ is going to come across that way. I thought you wanted a real reference point._

 _I don’t think,_ Sherlock studied the criminal, _you want deductions when we’re in the middle of…of…_

Jim winked without comment, making his way past Sherlock to grab his phone from his jeans, and then back to his spot on the bed.

               “ _No_ ,” the detective mouthed silently, unable to believe what he was hearing.

               The criminal shrugged a little more widely this time, _Maybe I get off on it. Just a teensy bit._

 _But…_ Sherlock was perplexed. Jim had barely gotten to see him make deductions since the Bond had been formed. So, logically, he could assume that the criminal had felt that way _before_ shaking hands on the rooftop.

               _How_ could that be possible?

               Jim just watched him passively, and Sherlock decided this was a discussion they could have another day. Or, night. Taking a breath, he moved to join the criminal on the bed. He was surprised when, as soon as he sat down, Jim squeezed his hand.

               _John’s asleep. Listen,_ the criminal thought when Sherlock turned to him.

               Indeed, there was nothing to be heard. No muffled television or typing whatsoever.

               “If he’s asleep,” Sherlock murmured, pleased with the fact that his voice elicited a small shiver from James, “He’s only just. We’ll still have to be very quiet until at least half an hour has passed.”

               “Get over yourself,” the criminal smirked at Sherlock’s self satisfaction, “It’s still cold in here.”

               “Somehow,” the detective rolled his eyes at Jim’s lack of subtlety, “I feel as though you’re not truly upset by that.”

               _Neither are you,_ Jim thought smugly, moving closer to Sherlock so that they were pressed together. Grateful for the contact, the detective leaned on him, wondering if his pulse would ever slow enough for sleep.

               Actually, that was a good question he still hadn’t decided on the answer to. _Were_ they going to sleep? If sex wasn’t happening—and they seemed to have an unspoken agreement that tonight it wasn’t—then what _was_ going to be happening?

               _Sleep will eventually take place,_ Jim mused, pulling away from Sherlock a moment to turn the bedside light off, enveloping them in darkness, save for what light came through the window. _But you and I both know that neither of us are tired._

 _What do you propose we do to pass the time?_ Sherlock wished he didn’t have to feel so wired all the time around Jim. In an attempt to take his mind off the fact that the criminal was sitting next to him, wearing borrowed clothes, _in bed_ , he pulled the blankets out from underneath them. After a brief struggle, they were both comfier and _much_ warmer. Jim sidled even closer to Sherlock, leaning back on two pillows. The criminal took his phone out, not bothering to hide his passcode from the detective. After all, if Jim ever needed to hide information from Sherlock, God knew he would find a way.

               _Well,_ the criminal thought mischievously, _I_ did _overhear enough of your conversation with Molly to know that Sebastian has been naughty._

_Oh, God._

_Would you like to assist in telling him off?_

Would Sherlock like to assist in giving a homophobic brat a scare? They both knew the answer to that question.

               _Brilliant_ , Jim started to type.

               **Is there any reas-**

“No, no,” Sherlock hissed, “Make _him_ come to the conclusion that you’re upset.”

               **Is there something you haven’t told me, Moran? JM**

The detective’s smirk was positively wicked, but Jim frowned as a possibility occurred to him.

               _What if he doesn’t reply?_

_You’re James Moriarty. If he wants to live, he’ll reply._

_At this point, it might not matter one way or the other,_ Jim mused.

               **Of course not, Boss. SM**

There was a small intake of breath from both consultants at the sniper’s boldness.

               “Any requests?” Jim inquired politely.

               _All yours._

**That’s intriguing, considering Sherlock received a visit from a miss Molly Hooper today. She had some interesting things to say. JM**

The detective was certain that, if one listened hard enough, it was possible to hear Sebastian cursing from across London. Jim grinned evilly.

               “Of course he would overlook the Bond,” Sherlock marveled, “He’s so ignorant that he pretends it doesn’t exist on a daily basis.” So _that_ was why there hadn’t been any groveling yet! Though it was curious why Jim wasn’t angry.

               The criminal was slightly shocked at the question. He’d never really considered it, but now that it had been asked, he too wondered why he wasn’t bothered by Sebastian’s apparent betrayal. Perhaps because he’d known about it so quickly? Because it was Molly, and she wasn’t going to do anything to hurt them? Because he was lying in bed next to Sherlock, and he felt more content than he could ever remember?

               Possibly a mixture of all the above. Jim supposed he _should_ be disturbed at how quickly Sebastian had let go of important information, but…

               He _was_ quite young. He was an infatuated child; anyone could see that. This particular mistake had done no damage. If Moran could learn from it, they’d both be better off, afterwards.

               Sherlock marveled at what he was currently hearing. Was Jim Moriarty electing to _forgive_ someone?

               _You’re a bad influence on me,_ the criminal thought resignedly as a new text from Sebastian came in.

               **Are you going to kill me? SM**

Both consultants raised eyebrows at the nonchalance of the message.

               **I should.**

“Add more of your usual persona,” Sherlock suggested as Jim erased the text, having had the same idea, “Make him beg.”

               The criminal gave his partner a look, “Am I detecting a note of _sadism_ , Sherlock Holmes?”

               The detective mumbled something along the lines of, “Don’t like people like him.”

               **Oh, dear. Well, since you’ve asked nicely, I suppose you should get a say in how I do it. JM**

Sebastian’s reply came unusually fast, **What are my options? SM**

Understanding dawned on the consultants. There were two things that could be happening right now. Either Moran didn’t fear Jim, or he didn’t fear death. And one of those options was _far_ more likely than the other.

               The criminal refused to look at Sherlock, who was watching him intently. Jim was very aware of every part of the detective that was touching him.

               _It’s different when other people think about it,_ Jim finally met the steady intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. It felt like he was holding something heavy.

               The detective considered the situation. If he was truthful with himself, he pitied Moran.

               _Sociopath indeed,_ Jim commented, and Sherlock scoffed quietly.

               _Likewise._

There was a moment of pressing silence.

               _If you could go back and finish it,_ the detective asked, _would you?_

Jim watched Sherlock’s chest move up and down. He’d wanted to die before. But…it was hard to decide if he still wanted to. He didn’t think he could go through with it, with Sherlock looking at him like that. It would be unfair to leave the detective alone. Jim knew _he_ wouldn’t be able to handle it if the situation was reversed. Life without Sherlock in any form, even Unbonded, was…unimaginable.

               But a full life _still_ seemed so exhausting to walk through…

               “I’m not sure,” Jim confessed, “Don’t…read that incorrectly.” As cliché as it was, it seemed the line _it’s not you, it’s me_ applied very well.

               “Will you leave now?” Sherlock breathed.

               The criminal wished more of the detective was touching him, and Sherlock hesitantly wrapped an arm around him as he answered.

               “No,” Jim answered with conviction, “No, I don’t believe I will.”

               Sherlock’s fingers fumbled through the criminal’s hair, and Jim drew a long, shuddering breath.

               “How the hell do I deal with this? I can’t exactly give him counseling. Even if that _was_ something I was capable of.” _And it’s not as if I can let him do it. It would be a waste. I don’t know any other snipers who have proved themselves so often as he has._

The detective raised an eyebrow, _You seem confident in his abilities._

_I’m confident he has them. He would never have made it this far if he didn’t._

               “Give it to me,” Sherlock took the phone, “Sometimes logic is the only way to get to them.”

               “You say that as though you’ve done this before,” Jim pointed out.

               The detective grew very still, and the criminal turned to frown at him.

               _Before me…?_

_Don’t flatter yourself. You know the smartest ones are often the sickest._

Jim studied him, _Who changed your mind? I had…_

               Well, James had had Sherlock, thanks to the Carl Powers case. But directly speaking that would seem…too much.

               _Lestrade, usually. Now John._

 _Meeting him helped,_ the criminal guessed.

               _Immensely._

 _I see,_ Jim leaned back on Sherlock.

               **Do you value Molly Hooper? JM** The detective typed.

               **Yes. Please don’t hurt her. SM**

Sherlock sighed obnoxiously loudly.

               **Moran, you’re behaving ridiculously. Do you honestly think, just because you asked, that I won’t hurt her? JM**

Jim frowned as the detective hit send, _What if he kills himself? One wrong word and we won’t ever get a reply._

_What do you suggest we do? Call him?_

_John’s asleep by now._

Sherlock handed the phone back to its owner, and the criminal quickly dialed Moran’s number. The sniper answered on the third ring.

               _“Hell…hello?”_

Slurred words. Fantastic. The child had gotten himself drunk.

               “Christ, Moran,” Jim’s voice was as low in volume as he could get it without cracking, “How much have you had to drink?”

               _“’Nuff.”_

“Is he _crying_?” Sherlock whispered incredulously. Jim gave him a sharp ‘shut up’ look before continuing.

               “I should fire you now,” the criminal said distantly, “Who knows how much you’ve said?”

               _“Been alone,”_ Moran hiccupped.

               Jim pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Why did this feel like it was going to become a project?

               _You’re a bad influence on me,_ he scolded Sherlock, _I pity the fool._

_James, you’re the one who keeps him in a job. You keep exposing us to him._

“Put the bottle down and listen to me,” Jim commanded.

               The line went silent.

               “I am not your father, Sebastian,” the criminal looked at Sherlock, who motioned him on, “I need someone reliable to-”

               _“I don’t give a fuck what you need! Just kill me!”_

Jim was slightly perplexed at the sniper’s earnestness, “I’m having…is this because of Hooper?”

               There was nothing but incoherent sobbing on the other line. Sherlock rolled his eyes, and the criminal sighed resignedly.

               “Moran, stop crying. Christ.”

               The line went quiet.

               It was Jim’s turn to roll his eyes, “You are allowed to breathe.”

               Sebastian complied.

               “If it consoles you,” the criminal continued, “Ms. Hooper will not be dying anytime soon. Not by my hand. She’s a friend of Sherlock’s.”

               Moran listened silently, sniffling every once in a while.

               “That being the case, her spilling information has not caused irreparable damage.”

               There was still no response from Sebastian.

               “Say something so I know you’re not dead,” Jim sighed tiredly.

               _“…continue.”_

“It would be a waste to let you die,” the criminal attempted to hurry the conversation, “I don’t often tolerate mistakes, Moran, but given the circumstances-”

               _“W…Wait…you’re letting me…live?”_

“If you’re willing to clean up your act,” Jim said harshly, “Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice-”

               _“But you’re Moriarty!”_

“Don’t forget it.”

               _“But-”_

“I expect for exactly half of your current assignment to be finished by the end of next week,” the criminal demanded, getting more uncomfortable by the second, “I can very easily have you disposed of if-”

               _“Thank you! Oh my God, Jim. Thank you!”_

Jim blinked, confused.

               “Don’t expect this again from-”

               Moran was crying again.

               “Go to sleep and keep a shot of whatever you’ve been drinking by your bed in the morning. You’ll never get this done with a hangover.”

               Jim hung up and let out a breath he wasn’t sure why he’d been holding. He cared nothing for Sebastian, so there was no real reason to be concerned with his death besides minor inconvenience.

               He _hoped_ he cared nothing for Sebastian. Sherlock was one thing, but to have two people in his life was a liability not worth keeping.

               The criminal didn’t like the disinterested agreement he received from the detective. Jim turned to look at him.

               “He’s an ignorant brat.”

               Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, “I never disagreed.”

               Troubled, James set his phone aside and turned slightly, gazing out the window across from them.

               Several minutes passed in silence. The criminal wished there were a way he could lie comfortably and be closer to Sherlock, yet still see the stars. Sherlock mulled over possible solutions for a bit, but ended up scrapping all of them and sinking lower into the pillows and mattress, left hand still playing absentmindedly with Jim’s hair. Lazily, the detective draped his other arm over his stomach so that James had access to _something_ to do, while still being on his back. The criminal experimented with their Marked hands silently, examining Sherlock’s reactions to different fingers or parts of the palm touching.

               Traffic seemed quiet, for London. Maybe that was because they were both so engrossed in one another. Jim wondered dimly what time it could be. If it was midnight, that at least would be a possible reason for the lack of noise.

               Sherlock’s breathing had been deep and even for a good fifteen minutes when Jim finally spoke. Despite the steady rise and fall of the detective’s chest, James knew he was awake.

               “I’ll tell you.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock balked at the simple statement. Even having access to Jim’s thoughts, he hadn’t been able to anticipate that sentence.

               Maybe that was why he was hearing it.

               There were a thousand possible responses he could make. John would say something simple. Like, “Alright, go ahead.” Molly would have rambled on about the endless support she could offer. Mum would have made a lighthearted joke: “Well get on with it, then!” Dad would have done the same as John. Mycroft would have rolled his eyes and motioned him on. Lestrade would have stayed quiet and done the same.

               Perhaps Greggory’s response was the most appropriate, in Jim’s case.

               Sherlock made a point of growing very still. He had a sense that the criminal had his mouth open, but was still formulating words.

               “…It was stupid,” when Jim broke the silence, his voice was slightly hoarse, as though it the words were physically scraping his throat on their way out, “It was petty, Sherlock.” _I don’t want you thinking of me differently because of this._

The detective wasn’t sure what to say, so he interlocked their Marked hands together, stroking Jim’s with his palm.

               Miraculously, that seemed to do the trick. James’s pulse was accelerated, but he unlocked an invisible door for Sherlock, and suddenly, memories flooded the detective’s mind, as clear as though he were seeing them with his own two eyes.

               The criminal was right. It was simple. But Christ, that didn’t mean it wasn’t painful.

               Sherlock tasted blood. He saw conveniently averted glances from bruises. He heard infuriatingly quiet adults tell him to make friends, to try harder to fit in and things would get better. He ached everywhere, but the worst was his head, because the one thing he enjoyed about himself was making his life a living hell. Mum and Dad were busy and snappish and confused by him, and he wondered why the bloody hell everyone else was so happy when he wanted to die. Why weren’t other people interested in the same things as he was? Why were they all so _stupid?_ By, God, even the adults were stupid, and they were _supposed_ to be smart! It wasn’t fair that he had to hurt all the time because he was different. He was smarter than all of them and just because he wasn’t what they wanted, he had bruises up and down his arms and stomach and _Christ_ , he was drowning and there were hands in his hair and he had only _one solution left._

_Bullied._

               The detective wasn’t sure why, but he felt a need to keep a good grip on James, like he was about to bolt away. The criminal was breathing hard, gritting his teeth in what Sherlock couldn’t distinguish from bitterness or grief or fury.

               How was he supposed to explain that he still didn’t see the connection?

               “God, Sherlock,” Jim rolled his eyes caustically, “It’s the same _thing._ Perceptions of weakness. And for too long,” even in the darkness, it was evident that his gaze was dangerously dark, “I was seen as nothing more than a circus freak to them.”

               Sherlock breathed.

               “And for the record,” Jim’s voice was fluctuating from precariously loud to precariously quiet, “I’m _not_ actually gay. It’s not all men. Not even any _people_ , besides…” _You._

The detective still was completely floored by this new information. Silently, he acknowledged that, for what it’s worth, he didn’t consider himself gay either. The word uninterested came to mind, despite the fact that James was a _museum_ of interesting things.

               Perhaps they were an exception to one another’s rules.

               “Say something,” Jim snapped. It occurred to Sherlock that he probably had been silent too long to be polite.

               The detective felt frozen. What did he know about condolences? What could he _possibly_ say to James to sooth his pain?

               Sherlock turned to look at the criminal, mouth partially open with the unspoken word. Jim’s eyes were alight with apprehension.

               _What would you like me to say?_ the detective asked, aware he was walking a very fragile line.

               _I’m not going to figure it out for you._

Huffing in frustration with himself, Sherlock examined Jim’s collarbone as he thought. Maybe now wasn’t the time to be clever.

               “Thank you for sharing,” the detective kept his tone neutral, watching Jim’s face carefully.

               Miraculously, he seemed to untense, ever so slightly.

               _Well._

_Well._

James frowned.

               “Did I react incorrectly?” Sherlock inquired, perplexed, “I was certain I had that one.”

               The criminal shook his head, “No, Sherlock, you…” _you’ve surprised me. I wasn’t expecting this kind of warmth from you._

In spite of himself, Sherlock blushed.

               _Not a bad thing,_ Jim reminded him, _Just different. Coming from you._

_I could say the same for you. Regarding what you’ve just told me. Not what one would expect from James Moriarty, consulting criminal._

_That’s why no one can know._

_Naturally,_ Sherlock thought diplomatically, “Though I hope you know it no longer matters.”

               James considered this. Of course, _logically_ , it shouldn’t matter. Why hadn’t he entertained that possibility more?

               _Good question,_ the detective thought wryly, _Perhaps because we’d never have met without Powers?_

The criminal sunk into the pillows behind him, sighing, “Fair point.”

               Sherlock stared.

               _What?_

“Do you remember the first time we...” Sherlock gestured absently as he settled himself again, “…kissed?”

               James yawned, starting to get tired from all this conversation. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked for this long, “Which one? The pub or the snow?”

               “Pub.”

               “Of course I remember.”

               Sherlock smirked in the darkness, and the criminal glared at him.

               “ _Sherlock_ …” Jim sighed loudly.

               “You mentioned astronomy.”

               “ _And?”_

The detective slyly highlighted a few less painful tidbits James had let slip along with the more painful memories.

               _It’s too late for this, Holmes. We should go to sleep._

_Your funeral._

_It’s going to be_ your _funeral, if you don’t let me sleep,_ the criminal threw a hand over his eyes, but was silently combing through Sherlock’s psyche.

               The detective watched as disbelief turned to incredulity to personal offense.

               “Sherlock?”

               “Yes, James?”

               “ _Why_ can I not find _anything_ about astronomy besides John shouting at you for not knowing the solar system?”

               _Now that I know it’s important to you, and we’re already talking, I thought it was relevant to mention I’ve deleted all of it._

Jim’s jaw dropped and he turned to Sherlock, eyes wide, “ _No.”_

“Unfortunately,” the detective drawled, “yes.”

               _“Why would you tell me this now?”_ the criminal groaned, burying his face in Sherlock’s chest, “Christ, now I have to teach you!”

               _No, you don’t. It’s a waste of time._

_No, it’s not!_

Sherlock was surprised by the betrayal in Jim’s tone.

               _It really matters to you?_

_You’ve seen the memories. Yes, it fucking matters. I’d have thought it would have been obvious. I never tried to hide all of it._

Hm. Perhaps Sherlock hadn’t been paying as much attention as he’d thought he had.

               “You?” he whispered, “Of all people? Everything you do is based on practicality.”

               “Not everything, apparently,” Jim grumbled, “Besides, space is useful.”

               “Do tell how.”

               The detective wondered why it took the criminal so long to respond.

               “Because,” Jim sighed, suddenly sounding quite weary, “It’s not boring. It never stops expanding, so there’s always something new. Not like Earth. Once you’ve figured that out, it becomes a cage.”

               _Oh. But that’s impossible!_ Sherlock found it difficult to believe that anything was infinite. And, if space was expanding, what was outside of it?

               “No one knows, Sherlock,” the detective could feel Jim’s voice vibrate as the criminal talked into his chest, “That’s _why_ it’s comforting.”

               _Oh._ Sherlock supposed he could see the appeal of the idea. It was similar to religion, he assumed, but scientifically based.

               _Lots of mathematics, too,_ Jim added, _But you seem to get the picture._

In truth, the detective wasn’t quite sure he did. But James sounded tired, so—

               “I’ll teach you a little bit tonight,” the criminal sighed, “If you make me tea in the morning. I’d rather you not spend another day completely incompetent.”

               “You thought I was brilliant _before,_ ” Sherlock whined.

               “Yes. Now I know better.”

               It was the detective’s turn to sigh.

               “Fine,” Sherlock hadn’t heard a word yet and he was already dozing off.

               “If you fall asleep, I’ll skin you.”

               “Yes, _professor_.”

               Jim stifled a yawn. The detective made for a strangely comfortable pillow and he himself was also having trouble staying awake.

               “Good,” the criminal drawled, “There are eight or nine planets in our solar system, depending on who you ask, which all revolve around the sun.”

               _Eight_ or _nine?_ “How is a planet debatable?” Sherlock interrupted, perplexed already.

               James, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, sighed, “It just is, Sherlock.” _We are not having_ that _talk tonight._

The detective was intrigued, but didn’t inquire further.

               “Mercury is the first planet…”

               They made it to Jupiter before losing consciousness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo! Long chapter. I hope it was worth the wait? And I hope, despite your expectations of smut, that this was still enjoyable. I thought these two needed to build some trust before doing the do together, wouldn’t you say? Anyway, leave me your thoughts please and thank you!


	30. Refractor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First scene takes place while Jim and Sherlock are snuggling and things ^_^

               Mary set her glass down with a resonating clink. Mycroft’s gaze felt heavy from across the table; his eyes as hard and flinty as the crystal she held.

               Piano notes gracefully floated over the sounds of silverware on dishes and the hum of a hundred private conversations. Mary couldn’t help but miss the familiar sound of Sherlock’s violin over the more haunting noise the keys created.

               She’d felt bad having to cancel on John, but what other choice did she have? This was the man with the power to offer her security—not John. As much as she preferred the ex army doctor’s company…she was certain he would want her safe. And to stay safe, she needed to keep Mycroft Holmes happy.

               “You asked me here for a reason,” Mary looked up from what little food was left on her plate.

               The elder Holmes tilted his head patronizingly, “Naturally,” he rotated his wine glass slowly on the table, keeping the surface of what alcohol remained in it smooth as glass, “But it’s always good business to treat an ally to dinner first.”

               Mary wasn’t afraid to stare him down. Her time with John had reminded her who was in control. James Moriarty may have been a monster, but he certainly wasn’t the only intelligent person in London. Nor was he the only one who was capable of standing his ground and playing the game.

               Mycroft was useful, but the fact that he’d felt the need to arrange this meeting at all was…troubling.

               “That’s what it comes down to with you politicians, isn’t it?” she observed coolly, “Business.”

               He raised his eyebrows, “Everything does, if you read close enough. Even if it masquerades under a different name.”

               “Love?”

               “Most of all,” the dim lighting made Mycroft’s eyes glint like the silverware that sat in front of them, “A balance of powers. Which is why I’ve called you here.”

               _What?_ Mary frowned, confused.

               “Don’t think too hard on that, Miss Montagne. Or, I should say Morstan. The new identity is treating you well, I suggest?”

               She kept her face neutral, but her tone gracious, “Of course, it fits like a glove.”

               Mycroft appeared to enjoy her choice of words, “Good,” he sighed, “On to business, I suppose.”

               Mary waited.

               “I don’t want to put us on bad terms, Miss Morstan,” he began. The warmth in the words did not reach his face completely, and Mary was left to look at a sad parody of kindness. “But I must adhere to a policy of honesty. You agree?”

               God, he must think her stupid. At least Moriarty had been straight to the point. He’d never wasted time on flowery words.

               She confirmed for Holmes that she did, in fact, agree.

               “Good,” he repeated, studying the tablecloth between them, “So you will be honest with me about the extent of your knowledge of Moriarty?”

               Mary blinked. That was all he wanted? But that was so simple! She had no issue with selling every last bit of information she knew about Moriarty, except…

               Sherlock. John wanted him to be happy. As much as he claimed that Bonding had been a complete accident between the younger Holmes and Moriarty…it had happened, and that _would_ likely show itself in some form of attachment, even if it was one sided. What if, by leading Mycroft to Moriarty, she indirectly broke Sherlock’s heart? This wasn’t just romance, it was a _Bond_. A physical connection that altered the chemistry of the brain. What if Mycroft harmed Moriarty in some way, and ended up hurting Sherlock? He didn’t seem the type for anything other than tough love. Maybe the bastard would think it was _good_ for Sherlock. Mental exercise, perhaps? Good God, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to _kill_ Moriarty, would he?

               The bottom line was that the information she gave Mycroft could do permanent damage to Sherlock. And John wouldn’t ever be able to completely forgive her for that.

               “Why are you asking me this?” Mary attempted to buy herself some time to weigh her options, “You know I’m giving you everything I know already. I have no reason to protect Moriarty.”

               Mycroft smiled cruelly, and Mary was reminded of a crocodile, “You have every reason,” he drawled, “I see it on your face. John. And you’re worried that I’m going to hurt my brother’s Soulmate, and therefore ruin your chances with our favorite army doctor.”

               It was a struggle to keep her face blank.

               “I know,” the elder Holmes continued nonchalantly, as if they were discussing the weather, “That you know far more than you’ve given us. You were his first in command, and as difficult as the main population finds it to believe, the Napoleon of Crime is still human. I’d know, because I’ve held him in captivity before. He bruises just as everyone else does.”

               “You’ve caught him once,” Mary pointed out, “Why is it difficult to catch him again?”

               “I think,” Mycroft’s expression darkened, “He’s trying harder.”

               “Why is that, I wonder?”

               If Holmes had ever looked like Moriarty, it was then, “The exact same reason,” he said ominously, “That I am. Sherlock.”

               Mary raised her eyebrows, “You think he cares about your brother?”

               “I think he’s obsessed.”

               “And you’d hurt Sherlock to stop that?”

               “You think I would hurt my dear brother for the sake of hurting James Moriarty?” Mycroft challenged.

               _Actually,_ Mary thought to herself, _yes._ She’d never seen Holmes show affection for anyone before, not even basic empathy. His personality could only be described as icy.

               “My my,” Mycroft took her silence as enough of a response, “You truly think me so cold? After all I’ve done for you?”

               “You only did what you did for me,” Mary countered cautiously, “In the name of good business. You were already hunting Moriarty.” She was quite grateful for that fact; if Mycroft hadn’t needed information on the criminal mastermind, she would already be rotting in the frozen ground.

               “And that,” Holmes spoke slightly too quickly, and Mary silently cursed as she realized she’d said exactly what he’d wanted her to, “is precisely the point I’m making. You received government protection and money because you were of _use_ to us.”

               He was threatening her. And by God, it was an effective threat.

               She had no identity without what Mycroft had given her. She couldn’t very well fake a new set of documents, because of Moriarty’s influence in the underworld. She _needed_ Mycroft’s help to hide from the criminal. It didn’t matter that he thought her dead, because he had such a far reaching influence that _somehow_ , he’d notice her sooner or later. Especially if she was literally doing business with his subordinates!

               Between Mycroft and Moriarty…Mary was powerless. Either one of them could decide to ruin her on a whim. They could falsify documents or ruin her current ones or dig up old ones…not to mention, Jim could very easily track down records of her past employment if he ever needed to.

               She had to do what Holmes said, and it must have shown on her face, because the most infuriating smile stretched his mouth thin.

               “So you see, Miss Morstan,” Mycroft said softly, “As long as you continue to assist us in finding Mr. Moriarty, you have nothing to fear.”

               “What if I can’t give you any more?” she asked sharply, “That day will come eventually.”

               Piano keys continued to chime, but there was something about the tranquility of the tune that made Mary want to shiver.

               “Let us hope,” Mycroft took his napkin off his lap, scrunching it up methodically, “James Moriarty has been captured by then.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               The first thing Sherlock was aware of, when he awoke, was Jim’s warmth against him. The criminal had his arms wrapped around Sherlock and his face nestled into the detective’s chest. He was half hard, pressing into Sherlock from behind layers of cloth, but it was difficult to be bothered by this small detail.

               On the contrary, Sherlock shyly appreciated it.

Unfortunately, the shift in emotion must have had some sort of impact on Jim’s sleep, because the breaths he drew seemed less deep and even. The detective noted that his being awake already would have started to wake the criminal, anyway.

               Sherlock made a miniature study of Jim’s breathing. There was something fascinating about that simple intake of oxygen and output of carbon dioxide, and yet for the life of him he couldn’t name what it was. Perhaps it was nothing more than the simple rise and fall of the criminal’s chest.

               Jim’s breath hitched slightly, and though his side of the Bond was still foggy with sleep, Sherlock knew he was awake.

               The criminal’s first thought of the morning was entirely different than Sherlock’s. Jim hurriedly shifted his hips away from the detective’s body with a barely intelligible, “sorry.” Sherlock would have _begged_ him to come back, but he couldn’t guarantee that that kind of contact wouldn’t elicit the exact same…reaction from him. And with John waking up, that could end up difficult to hide. Alas, practicality demanded chastity of them.

               For now.

               Jim detached himself from the detective completely, rolling onto his back. Sherlock, unhappy with the sudden lack of heat, rolled onto his side, lazily attempting to pull the dazedly amused criminal closer.

               Sherlock could almost have fallen asleep again, but Jim was forcing himself to stay awake. Light was shining in through the window across from them, hinting that, since it was winter, they had already overslept a bit.

               _Good morning,_ the criminal’s thoughts were still operating remarkably slowly.

               “Mm,” Sherlock hummed in response. Despite the fact that he now had half the space, he’d never been so comfortable in his own bed.

               _I’ll have that tea, now._

The detective opened his eyes to find Jim’s inches from his, glittering with amusement.

               The very _last_ thing Sherlock wanted to do was make tea. He wasn’t sure he ever wanted to move from this position again.

               _I don’t think I’ve ever slept that well,_ Jim thought more to himself than to Sherlock, but the point stood. Neither had known what to expect going into it, but there was something comforting about having the other’s aura next to them while they slept. To his amazement, Sherlock found it _soothing_. A few weeks ago, he’d have thought the premise mad, but…here they were.

               “Think I’m going to burn your heart out while you’re unconscious?” Jim’s voice was deliciously hoarse.

               A smirk tugged at Sherlock’s lips, “Shouldn’t you worry about me?” he teased, “The London police force could burst in at any moment.”

               The criminal grinned sleepily, and Sherlock tried not to be too pleased at the fact that he’d told a joke and Jim had found it amusing.

               _I find everything you do amusing, doofus._

_Now you’re just being sentimental._

Jim sidled up closer to the detective, hesitating only a fraction of a second before starting to play with Sherlock’s curls.

               Despite the absentmindedness of the gesture and the lack of a response to it, both consultants were already almost fully awake with the realization that this _could not_ and _would not_ be an isolated incident. Even so soon as tonight, Sherlock found the idea of sleeping without Jim slightly depressing, though the fact that they _at least_ had the Bond kept true despair at bay.

               Jim was watching him very intently with chocolate eyes, _You know it can’t be every night. Not while Mycroft is like this._

Sherlock wet his lips. Of course he bloody knew.

               _You know I want to,_ Jim continued.

_You’re playing with my hair and woke up hard for me. We have established mutual attraction._

_God, you’re a prick sometimes._

_He can’t control this forever. He’ll crack eventually. He always does. Just look at his dieting history._

Jim snorted dangerously loudly, and Sherlock, suddenly _wide_ awake, quickly attempted to hush him.

               _John will hear!_

_You made me laugh._

_I did not_ make _you._

 _You should_ make me _,_ the criminal thought slyly, _some tea._

_John’s awake. I’ve told you._

_Do you_ not _drink tea in the morning?_

Sherlock glared at the man next to him. Yes, he drank tea in the mornings. He just didn’t want to move.

               _Shall I push you?_

_I should push you back down that air vent._

_Just think,_ Jim proposed, suddenly diplomatic, _The faster you make tea, the faster you’ll be able to get back into bed._

 _Ah yes,_ Sherlock rolled his eyes, _‘John, for the first time since you’ve moved in with me I’ve decided to take my morning tea in bed.’ That will go splendidly._

 _I’m certain you can figure something out,_ the criminal smirked, unlacing his fingers from Sherlock’s hair and giving him a nudge. _Isn’t John used to the unusual by now?_

 _He’s used to the truly unusual. This is_ normal _unusual,_ the detective groaned.

               _It’ll be fine. No need for fine china like last time._

 _You’re so low maintenance,_ Sherlock thought sarcastically. Jim was already resettling himself, burying his face into a pillow.

               The detective sighed. It looked like he didn’t have much of a choice. He slid out of bed, aware of Jim’s eyes on him. It was difficult not to be flustered at all by the tangent the criminal’s thoughts were heading off on.

               _My sincerest apologies,_ Jim thought coyly.

               Feeling slightly bolder than usual, Sherlock stretched, exaggerating the motion and stifling a moan. He arched his back while lifting his arms towards the ceiling, just enough so that the tiniest bit of his stomach was visible. It was intimidating to go through with something so forward, but the payoff of feeling Jim become more and more flustered by the second was _worth it._ The criminal’s accelerated heartbeat was like music to Sherlock’s ears, and when the detective relaxed again, he saw that Jim was watching him with an almost frightening intensity.

               _That was rude._

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, sending an indirect ‘ _you deserved it’_ to Jim, and was out the door.

(o0o0o0o0)

               John braced himself as soon as he heard Sherlock’s door open, wishing he could disappear in the steam rising from his tea.

               The detective was dressed normally enough. Not in just a sheet…had he dressed while Jim was in the room? Oh, _God_ , John didn’t want to think about what kinds of kinky strip teases that could have involved…

               A part of him wished he didn’t know Sherlock well enough to be so aware of when his routine had changed. If only he’d just stayed ignorant, he wouldn’t have had to _know_ Jim was over. But no. Sherlock Holmes was brilliant in many ways, but subtlety was _not_ one of his many fortes. And because of that, John had been given a whole _lovely_ night to ponder what precisely Sherlock and Moriarty were laughing so much about.

               He bloody _knew_ what.

               It was so strange to think of Holmes being that… _close_ with anyone. Much less _Moriarty._ Yet there he was, in the kitchen, trying and _failing_ to hide the fact that he was pouring two cups of tea for their morning-after-breakfast.

               Oh, hell. John had to say something. This was bloody awkward for both of them. Surely Sherlock knew _he_ knew at this point, as well.

               John made a point of staring at the detective as he spooned sugar into one mug of tea. When Sherlock remained oblivious, the doctor decided he was going to have to speak first.

               “Sleep well?” he inquired, watching the detective carefully for a reaction.

               Sherlock frowned thoughtfully, shaking his head to himself, “Fine.”

               Alright, he _had_ to know how obvious he was being! That was far too enthusiastic of an answer to be realistic! If he’d wanted to be convincing, he wouldn’t have said _anything._ How the hell was Sherlock Holmes, self diagnosed sociopath and master of manipulation, being this transparent?

               _Jim must really have him flustered._

John didn’t want to think about it, but the theory made sense.

               “Why two mugs?” he pushed, watching Sherlock’s posture go rigid.

               _Transparent._

“Thirsty.”

               John snorted into his tea. He wasn’t certain, but he could _swear_ Jim was snickering in the other room.

               The idea was _strangely_ comforting. For a moment.

               Sherlock looked baffled, though it was difficult to tell whether this stemmed from genuine ignorance about how much John knew, or offense at the fact that he’d just been laughed at.

               “Alright, Sherlock,” John held up a hand, still amused, “Look, just…stop. I know he’s here. You might as well not go to the trouble of hiding.”

               To the doctor’s shock, a hint of surprise was visible on Sherlock’s features—perhaps because he hadn’t expected acceptance, or perhaps because he truly hadn’t been able to tell that John knew.

               Both were probably true. But believing that Sherlock Holmes had been blinded by his love (?) for Jim Moriarty was one thing, and knowing what to expect when Jim emerged from the bedroom was another thing entirely. John found it difficult not to stare when the criminal finally showed himself.

               He looked…ordinary. Well, maybe that was a stretch. Jim Moriarty would never appear entirely ordinary to John. Seeing him so close still made the hairs on the back of the doctor’s neck stand on end, but that didn’t mean the reaction was logically warranted. It was difficult to find Moriarty intimidating when he was wearing pajamas ( _Sherlock’s_ pajamas!) too large for him, his hair mussed from sleep (or a definite _lack_ of it), and his lips pursed in a mischievous smile that broadened as soon as he set eyes on the detective.

               John may as well not even have been there. Sherlock rolled his eyes, making a nasty face at Jim as the criminal shook his head.

               “I’m disappointed in you,” it was mystifying to hear a _smile_ in that Irish drawl.

               “Shut it,” Sherlock grabbed what was presumably his mug, taking a sip and avoiding eye contact with Jim.

               “You were _thirsty?_ ” John couldn’t tell if there was malice in Jim’s voice or not. Did Moriarty know _how_ to tease people without making them afraid or uncomfortable?

               “Wouldn’t have been able to explain anyway,” the detective muttered, and Jim actually _snickered_ …similar to one of the many noises John had heard last night. The criminal took the other mug of tea, but instead of bringing the cup to his lips, he offered it to Sherlock with a devilish smile.

               “For God’s sake,” the detective exclaimed, rolling his eyes and walking away towards his chair across from John.

               Jim followed, “You couldn’t think of _any_ better explanation?”

               Sherlock set his tea down before throwing himself into his armchair, every inch of him reading exasperation, “You _had_ to have your tea.”

               The criminal didn’t respond, but it was obvious from watching Sherlock’s facial expressions that they were silently talking.

               John took a sip of his own tea, which was now cold. Jim was standing just to his left, and the close proximity was giving him mild anxiety.

               “Hello, by the way, Watson,” the criminal greeted him casually, as though the last time they’d seen one another hadn’t been in a courtroom.

               John had no clue how to respond, “…Pleasure.”

               “No need for that,” Jim brushed past, throwing the doctor an intense look over his shoulder. John closed his mouth, and the criminal looked around, presumably for a place to sit.

               After exchanging glances with Sherlock that clearly said “You’re a terrible host” “Oh, quit complaining”, Jim set his tea down and, to the shock and embarrassment of John, sat himself without hesitation in Sherlock’s lap. The detective blinked, refusing to make eye contact with John and going red as Jim adjusted himself.

               Finally, once they were all settled, John remembered to stop staring at the ridiculous scene in front of him. He took another cold sip of tea as the consultants silently argued with each other…at least, that’s what he _assumed_ was probably taking place. Somehow, the nonverbal communication seemed more normal than if they’d been talking aloud.

               It was perfect for Sherlock. The detective was probably loving it. Not having to worry about matching his voice to his racing thoughts. God knew Jim could probably keep up fantastically, either way.

                Jim interrupted John’s musing quite abruptly by leaning in and kissing Sherlock, who, while initially stiff, soon relaxed into the gesture, leaving a horrified John rooted to his chair. For whatever reason, the first thought the doctor was able to process was that Jim seemed to be just as inexperienced as Sherlock…though perhaps he wanted to give that impression?

               It didn’t matter. John stood up to leave, and Jim instantly tore himself from Sherlock with a wet noise, “Are we making you uncomfortable, Doctor Watson?”

               Sherlock closed his eyes with a weary sigh.

               The way the criminal was staring at John, eyes glinting dangerously, trying to prompt a fight, reminded the doctor more of ‘Moriarty’ than anything else he’d seen of the man so far today.

               Suddenly, something clicked into place. A memory flashed across John’s mind. Jim wild eyed with rage, screaming at Sherlock that he wasn’t his ‘little faggot’.

               _Oh._ By God, that was it, then, wasn’t it? The idea of Moriarty being insecure (even the word seemed ridiculous, applied to him) about _anything_ was a concept completely alien to John. And yet, here he was, testing whether or not he needed to have his guard up around 221B.

               What a bloody ridiculous way to do things. The criminal really was like Sherlock, wasn’t he? John rolled his eyes, ready to cut to the chase before things got too escalated.

               “Bit, yeah. And _before you say anything_ ,” he spoke in a hurry when Jim opened his mouth, “My sister’s gay. You’re just being rude. Bit tactless from a man regularly seen in Westwood, don’t you think?”

               The last thing John saw before turning to leave was Sherlock giving the criminal a look that _very clearly_ said, “I told you so.” The expression silently pleased John.

               “Wats—John!” Jim called after him, sounding bloody _offended_ , for Christ’s sake, as John made his way down the stairs from the flat. He paused when he reached the bottom, listening intently.

               _“I told you.”_

_“Shut up.”_

John was certain he shouldn’t think so, for moral reasons, but they were almost _cute_ together.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the wait, you guys. And I know it’s shorter. This is much closer to the length of earlier chapters. I’ve been having some mental health stuff going on and that takes priority over this, sorry to say. But writing does make me feel good, so long as it isn’t stressful, so I’m still going to try to keep uploading regularly(ish).
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter. John seems to have finally come to terms with the fact that Jim and Sherlock are a ‘thing’ now. Hm…I hope everything is okay between Mary and Mycroft…


	31. Nebula

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nebula- a cloud of dust and gas in space, usually illuminated by one or more stars. Nebulae represent the raw material the stars are made of.

               It really was quite shocking how quickly Sherlock’s world had begun to revolve completely around Jim.

               He was certain it would wear off eventually—become more a steady glow than the blinding inferno it was now—but at the moment, his every move, every thought, was molded by James. It felt like they were merging into one person, and the truly fascinating thing was that he wasn’t put off by it in the slightest. Perhaps that ought to have worried him, but Sherlock enjoyed the extra _feeling_ that the criminal added to everything. Never would he have thought Moriarty an emotional being but… Jim reacted to everything with such rage or elation or bafflement that the detective was left to wonder if perhaps he _was_ the ‘boring’ one of the two.

               Of course, this theory was short lived. Jim made it clear very quickly that things hadn’t always been that way.

               _Actually,_ he’d admitted, _I was completely apathetic; all I thought I could feel anymore was misery. Bitterness. Hatred. You can see for yourself._

The memories James had shown Sherlock had seemed to stretch on for miles. An endless expanse of grey tedium. He hadn’t known how to react, because by _God_ , he couldn’t handle boredom for a few hours…no wonder Jim had ended up the way he did. Twenty plus years of purgatory with no end in sight.

               And he’d ended it. _Sherlock_ was the one who’d put an end to that for Jim. The thought of being that loved by a person was a truly impossible concept to the detective.

               Well, he shouldn’t say…that word. This was better described as a mutual need. Attraction at best. Not love. The fact that Jim was suffering the same dilemma seemed to more firmly root the idea. They weren’t the sort of people who ‘loved’.

               However…Sherlock kept mulling over things John had mentioned and the stupid, trivial fluff that Mrs. Hudson had gushed about. Everything they’d said, no matter how abstract or laughably ridiculous it had seemed at the time, suddenly _made sense_. Some of it had been applicable to John, but even then, it had been limited to platonic feelings. Now absolutely _everything_ was happening to him because of Jim. The infatuation, the increased heartrate, the _embarrassing_ intrusive thoughts—he _swore_ they were getting more and more explicit, and it was unclear how much James was contributing to that. One thing was clear: he certainly wasn’t _complaining._

               So it was that one day, anxious beyond belief to see the criminal again (after a new low of 38 minutes apart), Sherlock did a very brief Google search: **love definition**

He was disappointed at what he found.

               **love (n)**

**-an intense feeling of deep affection**

**-a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone**

**-a great interest or pleasure in something**

Sherlock had closed his laptop then, oddly calm.

               Perhaps it was too early for this. Yes, it was far too early. After all, some of these could even apply to John, or cases.

               Nevertheless, the definition lingered on the Bond like an acrobat balancing on a tightrope, unsure quite which way was safest to lean. At the moment, the very best idea seemed to be to stay as neutral as possible.

               Jim thought about it even more than Sherlock did, so even when the detective tried to distract himself, the criminal’s worrying brought it straight back on the table for silent discussion—truly silent, even for them. Neither would dare directly address the other about it, for fear or sending their balancing act tumbling to its death.

               Loving anyone was dangerous. Loving James was suicide. Perhaps that was why, even when attempting to scan the spines of books in a pitch dark library, those curt, abstract definitions continuously brought themselves to the front of his mind.

(o0o0o0o0)

               The consultants wove their way through the shadows with ease. Even in the near complete darkness, Sherlock couldn’t take his eyes off of Jim, who seemed to be getting a small thrill from leading the show.

               “You know,” as the detective spoke, Jim spun to face him, “I’m beginning to think you simply prefer nighttime excursions over daytime ones.”

               The criminal’s grin reminded Sherlock of a shark, and his teeth gleamed white in what little light was present, “Only me? I’m of half a mind to say you enjoy it just as much as I do.”

               Taking a step closer, pulse racing, the detective cocked an eyebrow, “And the other half?”

               James leaned in _infuriatingly_ close, in that way he had, and murmured mere centimeters from Sherlock’s lips, “I’d say you enjoy it _more._ ”

               Sherlock mentally cursed as the criminal spun around. So close.

               _Someone’s eager,_ Jim commented flirtatiously. Perhaps if he pretended he wasn’t still getting over the early relationship jitters, they’d go away quicker.

               The detective was silently grateful that they were on the same page there. As much as he craved intimacy with Jim, it occurred to him whenever the mood escalated enough that he had, in fact, no idea what he was doing.

               Surely, between the two of them, they’d be able to figure things out.

               _Anxious,_ Sherlock answered, _You know I’m not overly fond of being left to follow._

“Oh, dear,” Jim spun lithely around again, “Looks as though you’re going to have a rough night, then.”

               The detective could have strangled him. The bastard _knew_ what he was doing. Sherlock planted his feet.

               “So that’s how you’re going to be?” Jim raised his eyebrows, and the detective smirked wryly in response. “Fine,” the criminal continued, taking a leisurely step towards him, “Then wait there. I won’t be long.”

               Like a ghost, Jim disappeared between shelves of books. Alone, the environment truly was quite eerie; bookshelves reached almost all the way to the ceiling, creating corridors of blackness all along the walls that couldn’t be reached by what little moonlight filtered through the front windows. Had Sherlock been prone to claustrophobia, he’d have been very uncomfortable.

               Jim was quietly collected books off the shelves he’d disappeared between, the disembodied noise involuntarily sending a shiver up Sherlock’s arms. An image of himself walking up the aisle the criminal had disappeared down and proceeding to slam him up against the wall pushed itself to the front of Sherlock’s conscious. He found himself pondering it a bit longer than usual. The criminal teasingly kept to the task at hand, offering no comment. 

               Sherlock was about to see how far his idea would take him when the tiniest glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision caught his attention.

               Instantly, his pulse was heightened, and no longer because of Jim. He turned in the direction of the anomaly, but, even with his vision sharpened by the fear response, there didn’t appear to be anything amiss.

               Of course, when was anything exactly what it seemed?

               Jim was now more aware of his surroundings, as well, keeping especially close tabs on Sherlock.

               _Certain you’re not overthinking?_ the criminal inquired, approaching Sherlock from behind.

               The detective kept his gaze fixated on the aisle he’d seen the movement in, “Are _you_ certain there isn’t someone who’d want to-?”

               James scoffed quietly at the assumption, “Me? Enemies? Even to them, I’m loveable,” he winked, “Besides, I’d worry more about you and your now dubious morality.”

               Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I’m going to see-” he took a step forward, only to be stopped by a hand on his arm.

               “Was probably just a ghost,” Jim murmured, sending a larger shiver down Sherlock’s spine than anything paranormal ever could. Damn emotions. It was difficult to believe that the criminal’s lack of concern was based in anything other than the fact that he had been, as of late, in a _ridiculously_ good mood. It was contagious, and Sherlock knew he’d be behaving dangerously recklessly if he agreed to let this go unchecked. Mycroft’s people could be anywhere and they had no way of knowing they were safe unless they were certain…

               God, when had he become so cautious? When had Jim become so reckless? Is this what love did to people? Not that this _was_ love…

               Oh, hell. James was correct. He probably was just elated by the fact that he was in a darkened room with the criminal breathing down his neck. Nothing more than a little hyperactivity of the imagination.

               Mycroft’s voice in his mind palace started to protest that no, there were no coincidences, that Sherlock needed to trust his own eyes, but the detective quickly stifled it. He’d stopped listening to Mycroft when big brother had stopped listening to him. Not that his ears had _ever_ been fully tuned.

               Sherlock took a deep breath, letting his lungs completely inflate and deflate before opening his mouth to speak. He smelled the must of used books, Jim’s aftershave, and the criminal’s cologne, tickling his nose ever so slightly and unnecessarily reminding him of their close proximity.

               He turned to face James, who had his arms full of books, “I’ll never let you hear the end of it if I was right.”

               The criminal’s grin positively _melted_ Sherlock’s heart, “Anything else would disappoint me,” he shoved the pile of books towards the detective, who obediently unburdened Jim of the top two. “But you know me,” he purred, starting to walk again, “I have high standards.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               The rooftop air was frigid against Jim’s face, and he noticed that the detective didn’t reflexively stiffen so much this time when he shifted closer. Sherlock’s body heat was helpful, but the criminal still found himself wrapping his jacket tighter around himself, silently cursing the flimsy, thin blanket they shared.

               Despite the fact that Jim had been itching to get to this very spot, now that he was here, he felt a strange calm spreading through his veins. Light pollution didn’t mean the stars weren’t out. The criminal sighed, staring at the sky, well aware of the fact that Sherlock was watching him.

               The detective’s presence was always a lovely accent to a night underneath the stars, but today something felt different. Jim had known in the pit of his stomach that something was off tonight when he’d only just stepped out the door. Even worse, he knew that it had _something_ to do with all the damn googling Sherlock had been doing as of late.

               It was nice that the unspoken word still went unacknowledged. Jim didn’t feel ready to talk about it. Maybe he never would. The detective hesitantly wrapped an arm around the criminal, catching him slightly by surprise as Sherlock dragged him closer. Grateful, James leaned into the detective.           

               There may have been a few more minutes of silence. Or seconds. No one was counting. Sherlock spoke first, surprising Jim again with the foreign words to fall off his tongue. Musical, automatic, as though they’d been rehearsed.

               Of course they had been.

               “Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter.”  

               Jim turned to Sherlock, who was watching him blankly, waiting for a response. It took an embarrassing amount of time for the criminal to formulate a single word response, his mouth open and ready to speak, but reforming itself over a dozen undecided words.

               “Excellent,” he finally said, adding a softness to the word that wasn’t present in connotation.

               Sherlock was still inappropriately fascinated, “It really matters to you?” he cocked his head to the side, gathering data, “I bothered to learn the names of five planets that I still care next to nothing about, and you’re doing that…thing.” The detective, like Jim, even between both of their extensive vocabularies, hadn’t yet been able to find words to properly describe the sensation of _my heart pounds for you and I can’t stop looking at you and my chest feels warm and I’m practically buzzing with a need to get closer._

               “Yes,” Jim answered simply, looking out in front of them over the city, “Very much so.”

               Sherlock blinked, “I see.”

               “Nah,” the criminal countered softly, leaning in close enough that he could see Sherlock’s pupils dilate slightly, “You observe. If you _saw_ , you’d understand that,” he nodded up at the sky, but as soon as his gaze returned to Sherlock, their lips were so close that Jim didn’t have time to see the adoration in the detective’s eyes before closing his own completely and meeting in a gentle kiss.

               Starlight, James later would ponder, seemed to have a tendency to bring out sentiment in people. Especially for people like him, who’d held hands with the cosmos when he’d had no other hand to hold. Perhaps that was why now, with a palm kissed by silver laced in the hair of a consulting detective, that something clicked into place.

               It was a forbidden word. He’d always thought it cheap and ugly; his thoughts tainted with bitterness and, he now realized, loneliness. All this time, he’d isolated himself from an ugly world that could never hold him, but the world didn’t _need_ to hold him. It had always been too small, too hot and crowded. No, he needed something vast. He needed a different cure. He needed galaxies where others needed planets, and never had he thought that he could find that in a person. Someone to stretch him and collide with him, not orbit.

               That…that was Sherlock. Maybe the reason he’d been hesitant to label this as love because he’d been reading the definitions others wrote. Now that he thought about it, what else could this possibly be? Love was cheap, but obsession was cheaper.

               And by God…this was it, wasn’t it? He was in _love_ with Sherlock Holmes. But this was more than ‘romantic attraction’. This wasn’t attraction; that implied two points and a line. Sherlock and him together were…a single point.

               _Soulmates_. The word was no longer a hiss, no longer a curse. He’d thought the Bond a disease, a nuisance, and overall an ugly _mistake_ , when it first had formed. But this wasn’t a mistake! Sherlock ranted constantly about the universe never behaving lazily, was this not the ultimate proof? This was not coincidence. They were made for each other. And if they couldn’t destroy one another…perhaps they could understand one another.

               Sherlock’s breath was caught in his throat as James loosened his fingers in the detective’s hair, their lips drifting apart, but their faces still near enough that when the cold air created a fog from their breath, it would ghost against the other person’s face before disappearing to the night wind.

               The idea of meeting Sherlock’s eyes was the most terrifying thing in the world. James studied the fibers of the blanket they shared, the pages of their abandoned books fluttering slightly in the wind, the night sky over Sherlock’s shoulder.

               “I think…” Jim frowned, wishing that there was an easier way to say this, “…this wasn’t a mistake.”

               Sherlock felt like all the air had left his lungs. _Surely_ Jim wasn’t saying what he thought he was? This wasn’t an isolated statement. This was everything they’d been considering and _he was right. He was going to be right and all Sherlock could do was wait._

               The detective tried to speak, but a cut off, childish sounding noise was all that came out, so he shut his jaw once more.

               He didn’t break eye contact. _Tell me. I’m ready (will I ever be ready?). For God’s sake tell me, I need to hear you say it…no, don’t say it. I’m terrified to hear it but I want it more than anything._

Jim’s voice was hoarse, his eyes locked onto Sherlock’s, “You know what I’m going to say already,” he observed.

               The detective’s mouth was slightly agape again. _He’s going through with this. With_ me? _How did this happen? Why didn’t this happen_ sooner? _This is happening_ now _…_

The criminal owed it to Sherlock to get on with it, he felt. James felt smaller than he had since he was a child, but perhaps that was a part of being human.

               “I love you.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock became aware only after a few seconds had passed that he’d blinked enough times already to last a good three minutes.

               Detail was everything. The sky was indigo, city lights provided dismal visual aid at best. Jim’s hair was natural and as chocolate as his eyes, which hid underneath a furrowed brow that the criminal usually wore when he was thinking. He looked and felt confused; as though he couldn’t believe what he’d just said.

               The words had been spoken like a diagnosis. ‘Sherlock, I have cancer. Terminal.’ But they were the opposite. Sherlock felt like he’d been falsely handed a check for three million pounds, only better.

               After a few more seconds, it occurred to him that his mouth was agape as he stared at James. He closed it, then opened it in the hopes of saying something, _anything_ , then closed it again. Surely this was impossible. _Surely_ this was the Bond talking—some kind of mistake in chemistry…

               With horror, Sherlock noticed that the criminal’s mood was quickly plummeting; romantic giddiness quickly morphing into familiar fear of intimacy.

               James looked away from Sherlock, out at the city, nodding to himself as though reluctantly confirming a hypothesis.

               “My apologies,” the criminal’s chest suddenly felt very tight, “I shouldn’t have said that.”

               If there had ever been a time when Sherlock was grateful for the Bond, it was then. Because while he still found himself vocally mute, his mind was capable of screaming.

               _Don’t take it back. Please._

God, what would he do if James took it back? He’d never thought someone could _love_ him out of anything other than obligation. Even with the Bond, they were perfectly capable of remaining in a love-hate relationship. Yet here was James Moriarty telling Sherlock that he _loved_ him…

The criminal met Sherlock’s eyes once more with uncertainty.

The detective had to resist the urge to kiss James right then and there. He’d hate to come off as rude.

 _Are you_ serious _?_ the criminal persisted, and it was Sherlock’s turn to be confused.

_About…?_

James shook his head, incredulity spreading across his features, “Sherlock…do you honestly believe that _you’re_ incapable of being loved?”

Sherlock scoffed.

               “Molly Hooper.”

               “…Well…yes,” Sherlock stammered, “But-”

               “Lestrade,” the criminal pushed.

               “He-”

               “Irene Adler,” James proclaimed smugly, as though they were playing a game, “And you’ve got the texts to prove it.”

               “Molly Hooper and Lestrade are both examples of tolerance,” the detective felt a little bit sick, “Close proximity for extended hours is the only reason they hold any sentiment towards me. Adler used me. Nothing more.”

               James shook his head, “Sherlock, she loved you. Just like the rest.” _I know, because you used to be one of the ways I threatened her._

               “What do _you_ know about love?” Sherlock snapped. _You’ve strapped people to bombs with no remorse. Have you ever cared about_ anyone _before?_

The criminal licked his lips, pausing for a beat.

               “It’s logic, Sherlock.” _Almost disappointing how your self pity is overshadowing that. You observe, but you don’t see._ “To a degree, before the Bond, you loathed me, correct?”

               Sherlock paused before nodding slowly.

               James huffed, “So it was proximity that brought _us_ together. Does that mean…what we feel means anything less?”

               Sherlock bit his lip, thinking, and the criminal continued, “People adore what you are. Close proximity allows that to manifest itself.”

               _Oh._

So James Moriarty was in love with him. He was in love with James. They were sitting on a rooftop at midnight sharing a blanket and discussing their feelings, for God’s sake. It seemed so bloody simple, now that he thought about it.

               They were _in love._ Actually in love. When had that happened?

 _‘Hey sexy.’ ‘Stop prying.’ ‘IOU.’ ‘I love you.’_ It had been written in every word, in a thousand different forms, from the very beginning. Because even when they’d wanted one another dead, they’d never been able to stay away.

               The detective had heard enough. Suddenly, he felt strangely giddy. A little bit too roughly, he pulled James into a kiss, crashing their lips together and surprising the criminal by pushing him down onto his back, the cold rooftop beneath him and warm Sherlock above him. A part of him worried he was going to bruise James’s lips, a part of him didn’t care. He needed to be closer, closer, closer, and every part of the criminal that touched him was a blessing in itself. Stubble scratched Sherlock’s much smoother skin as he tangled both of his hands in product free hair, James’s Marked hand slightly warm in his own.

               _Is this your way of getting out of your lesson?_

 _No one said you still couldn’t teach. Is this,_ Sherlock lowered his body to the criminal’s, _distracting?_

_You’re incredible._

The detective gave an experimental nip to James’s lips in response.

               _At least let me talk aloud._

Sherlock hadn’t the faintest clue why that was necessary, but he complied, since neck kissing was more enjoyable anyway.

               The criminal moaned quietly at the first brush of lips against his skin, only proving Sherlock’s point as a rush of blood went to his lower half.

               Stars were reflected in dark eyes as James started to speak, “We were at Jupiter, then, I believe?”

               It really was fascinating to feel the way the criminal’s throat formed words, Sherlock marveled.

               “I hope you’re listening.”

               The detective smirked and gave James another small, reassuring nip, “Mm.”

               The criminal’s chest rose and fell underneath Sherlock as he sighed, “Saturn is next,” the Bond was once again tranquil in that way it only was when James was under the night sky, “It’s also the second largest. It has the largest rings, though, as compared to the other gas giants.”

               Sherlock could feel the criminal’s heartbeat against his chest—or perhaps it was his own, beating synchronically—and was intrigued when it gave a little jump after a kiss just under the jawline.

               Hm. Noted.

               _Maybe stay there for now,_ Jim requested, grunting quietly when Sherlock opened his mouth and started to experiment with little flicks of the tongue.

               _Of course,_ the detective responded, as though they were discussing purely a business matter and not where he was going to put his mouth on James.

               “You can put it anywhere you like,” for once, the criminal voiced one of his more lewd thoughts aloud, and Sherlock was left to wonder how on _Earth_ an accent could make that big a difference in how arousing a sentence was.

               The detective slowed his movements, and Jim practically _purred_ underneath him, evidently liking this better.

               “Next planet?” Sherlock prompted, the words hot against the criminal’s skin, but causing him to shiver underneath the detective.

               “Uranus is the… _God_ …” James gasped as Sherlock ground their hips together, freezing almost guiltily when the criminal uttered his name.

               He looked down at Jim. _Did I do something wrong?_

“No,” the criminal moaned, and it occurred to Sherlock that James was far more aroused than he’d noticed. His side of the Bond was buzzing with the same erotic energy that Sherlock’s was, and his hardness was pressing against the detective’s through their clothing.

               Well…Sherlock supposed it was as nice a night as any, “Do you…?” he trailed off, not sure if he dared suggest the word they both were thinking. _Sex. SEX. Sex???_

James used his Marked hand to pull the detective back down to him, “Perhaps after we finish the list.”

               Sherlock swore. What planet were they on, again? How many were there to go? He knew they’d been through Mercury, Venus, Jupiter—

               The criminal gave a teasing thrust upwards with his hips, and every planetary body, including Earth, was wiped from his mind.

               “Hate you,” he mumbled against skin.

               “As I was saying,” Jim pretended he hadn’t heard, amused, “Uranus is seventh. It rotates on its side—oh!” he jumped when Sherlock bit sensitive skin, perhaps a bit too hard. The detective throatily chuckled.

               “Be careful,” the criminal warned, “I could still send you home empty handed.”

               _It’ll be dawn by the time you’re finished with this list,_ Sherlock started to suck, no longer caring what kind of collage of marks he left on James by the morning.

               “I certainly hope you can recite them. I’m not taking any clothing off until you can,” the criminal said coyly, “Next is Neptune. Like Jupiter, it has a monstrous sized storm that never really dissipates.”

               Sherlock was silently praying that the rest of the solar system would delete itself.

               There was a smile in Jim’s voice, “Pluto is next.”

               The name rang a bell, “Is that the one people debate about?” Sherlock asked dryly, considering whether or not it would be arousing to lick a long strip up the criminal’s neck.

               _Yes, it would be,_ James answered the unasked question, and shivered again when the detective executed the idea, tasting the salt of the criminal’s skin as he tried frantically to remember what the first planet from the sun was. _And yes, it is._

Sherlock whined into Jim’s skin, “How many more are there?” His hopes plummeted when the criminal’s side of the Bond was suddenly bubbly with amusement.

               “Oh, _dozens_ ,” James grinned, “Countless names you’ll have to remember. Infinite amounts, even. But as far as our solar system,” he paused for effect, “Pluto is the last one.”

               A heated silence fell. Suddenly, all of this seemed much more real. The criminal’s heat beneath him, the chill of winter air against their exposed skin, the Bond throbbing with longing.

               Sherlock turned to meet brown eyes, their irises almost completely obscured by blown pupils.

               “Well.”

               Jim licked his lips, “Well.”

               Nerves hadn’t bothered the detective all night—these days the criminal’s presence was more calming than anything—but now they seemed to return full force, filling his mind with hypotheticals and worry. He’d never wanted sex before Jim…what if they started and he didn’t like it anymore than he’d liked it with his other experiments? What if he disappointed the criminal somehow?

               “Don’t be ridiculous,” James scolded quietly, bringing Sherlock back to reality. _You could never disappoint me._

_That’s your emotions talking-_

_So? Logic points to it as well. You’ve got me halfway to orgasm just by reciting the planets on top of me. Imagine what’ll happen when clothes actually start coming off._

The detective was grateful for the darkness, because he flushed bright red.

               _Please don’t. It’ll be a mess._

_Then hurry up and recite the planets so we can go._

Sherlock moaned, perhaps more wantonly than he’d intended to, “You’re a tease.”

               Jim’s teeth flashed white in the moonlight, “And you’re stalling.” The _bastard_ started to flash images of what was to come in front of the detective. Hands undoing buttons, fingers in places they shouldn’t be and the criminal tugging at his hair…

               “Mercury…” Sherlock recalled the poison Moriarty had used to coat candy wrappers easily. _God,_ that had been a beautiful crime. John had told him off for enjoying it but it had been almost as stimulating as this.

               _Like foreplay._ _Could that be our foreplay? Could our foreplay be like this?_ he wondered to himself.

               James ground his hips up into the detective’s, a groan stuck in his throat. Without saying, the message was clear: _keep going._

               “Venus,” Sherlock’s pulse hammered loudly in his chest, “Earth, Mars.”

               “ _Good!_ ” the criminal sing songed, “Now what if I do this?” Before Sherlock had time to react, Jim had lowered a hand—his _Marked_ hand, dammit!—to his crotch and squeezed.

               The detective gasped at the rush of pleasure, cursing James a thousand times over silently and relishing in the criminal’s devious snicker more than his pride would ordinarily have allowed.

               Christ. That had brought him dangerously close to orgasm and it was excruciating to resist thrusting into Jim’s hand. They _still_ had to drive to the criminal’s flat, so it was imperative that he find a way to calm down before he managed to ruin tonight before it had even, for lack of a better word, climaxed.

               Who would have thought the same man who’d panicked over a kiss in a bookshop would be palming Sherlock on top of a library? The detective had a sneaking suspicion that part of it was because it was _him._ Because they’d grown so close that he was no longer much of a liability. But that wasn’t important. Not now. What was important right now was reciting these _damn_ planets and not coming into Jim’s hand.

               _I have to say, I wouldn’t be entirely disappointed if you did._

_Not helping._

He needed to do this. He had the information. All that stood between him and the criminal’s eyes alight with lust was a few simple names…

               Sherlock took a deep breath, and they escaped him faster than James could move his palm to distract him, “Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto.”

               The criminal grew very still underneath him, fixing an intense stare on Sherlock’s face. The detective matched it, breathing heavily.

               _You never intended to use those books, did you?_ Sherlock shifted his hips, watching James’s small but visible reaction to the movement.

               _Why do you say that?_ the criminal teased, smirking.

               _It’s far too dark out to read print like this, even with light pollution and what little we have from the stars and moon. And you knew…_ Sherlock hesitated slightly, _You can hear my every thought._

_Are you implying I had an agenda when I asked you here?_

_Not implying,_ the detective quipped, _Confirming._

“Hm,” Jim started to push Sherlock off of him, otherwise taking his hands off, “You seem confident. Though you _also_ played along.”

               “I had no objections.”

               The criminal’s grin was absolutely wicked, “As I knew you wouldn’t. I see what you Google, remember.”       

               Sherlock stood up, his trousers rather constricting to his arousal, “Research.” Somehow, he didn’t think he’d be able to remember one bit of it in bed with James Moriarty.

               The criminal didn’t comment, but gathered up half their things while Sherlock took the other. On the way out, he jingled a set of keys.

               _I drove._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annndd I think you all know what will be coming next. The long awaited sex between geniuses chapter. Sherlock is forgetting something, I think! He never said those three magic words…but Jim seems happy, so maybe he’ll remember after he’s had a little time under the covers. Such domestic bliss. Domestic problems. Would be such a shame if something were to be overlooked...


	32. Nova

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the impressionable youngins out there reading this despite not being 18, please have safe sex.

               Sherlock tried not to let too much of his excitement for what was to come get redirected towards the idea that he finally got to see where James lived.

               Perhaps it was trivial, but it had just occurred to him when they’d silently slipped through the front door together that this was the criminal’s living space. Doubtless, it was one of many, but the idea that James would ever have let him get this close had once seemed like a distant fantasy to both of them.

               Now, the criminal was opening the door to his flat, letting Sherlock step in before him. He was opening up and come morning the detective would have seen _everything_ and it was so bloody _exciting._

               The first thing Sherlock noticed about the place, before James flipped the lights on and shut the door behind them, was the smell. Every flat had a distinctive smell—the criminal always seemed to remember 221B as dust and faint tobacco—but all Sherlock could pick up on now was a generic clean scent. It was almost disappointing; he’d expected something very ‘Moriarty’; erotic and expensive. Obviously, that had been his sentiment talking—it made sense that a flat unlived in would smell impersonal.

               As for looks…they were equally unremarkable. The fixtures were modern, the carpet a deep red that accentuated the hardwood floors it accompanied, and yet, nothing about the place screamed ‘James Moriarty, consulting criminal’. It looked as though the place was _expensive_ , but it wasn’t Jim’s. Not truly. It was ridiculous, but Sherlock felt something absurdly close to pity over the fact that James Moriarty, the most interesting person in the world, had a flat that could have belonged to anyone. It wasn’t a home.

               An overwhelming rush of compassion for the criminal washed over Sherlock. It was right that they were doing this.

               James was studying him intensely when he turned his attention away from the interior décor.

               “You know I can’t,” he said quietly, sadness stealing a little bit of the energy from his voice, “Not in my profession.”

               Sherlock’s heart ached. Of course he was correct, “I know.”

               The criminal took a few steps closer to the detective, “I’ve already been here too long. Since before we were Bonded.”

               “You’re going to leave,” Sherlock asked hoarsely, “after this?” They were chest to chest now, and the detective vaguely remembered doing this with Irene. This intimate ‘let-me-stare-into-your-eyes-until-you-forget-how-to-breathe’ thing.

               The only difference was how much quicker James was drawing him in, brown eyes swallowing any power he might have had to look away.

               “I know what you’re thinking,” the criminal murmured, leaning in close enough that Sherlock could see his every twitch, “And I don’t need it.” _I have you._

Sherlock laced his hands with Jim’s, lips slightly parted as he memorized the patterns and imperfections of the criminal’s skin, noting the extra sensitivity of his slightly warmed Mark.

               He was nervous. Beyond nervous. But so was Jim. Perhaps that was part of the reason he didn’t feel as stifled as the other times. This was James; someone he knew he saw eye to eye with. It felt different this time.

               The criminal’s hands now rested on the detective’s chest, as though they’d been dancing, Sherlock’s arms wrapping themselves around his form with ease. Their faces were so close now that their foreheads almost touched; if James licked his lips now, his tongue would doubtlessly touch Sherlock’s own mouth.

               “Promise me this won’t change anything,” the criminal breathed maddeningly softly.

               Sherlock closed the distance between them, “Only if you do,” he whispered against James’s lips, pulse hammering and seeming to plead that he move closer, ever closer…

               The criminal’s mouth trembled a moment before answering, “I promise.”

               “I promise.”

               No sooner were the words out of his mouth that the detective’s lips were on Jim’s. He’d never have described it as an aggressive kiss, per say, but James was holding onto him as though he was never going to let go, and Sherlock found it all too welcoming, like quenching a thirst he’d had forever, to be able to embrace someone as tightly as he could and know that they would return the favor.

               He could just _feel_ his lips bruising under the pressure being put on them, but he didn’t care. He let James back him up against a wall, the criminal flattening his body up against him and rocking their hips together.

               Sherlock was getting very uncomfortable in his clothing very quickly, his cock straining against his trousers. James was breathing heavily against him and the detective forced his tongue into the criminal’s mouth, eliciting a surprised but not unhappy moan from the man pressed against him.

               _Sherlock._

_James._

Fingers twisted themselves in the detective’s hair as the consultants explored one another’s mouths. Jim’s stubble was rough against Sherlock’s much smoother skin and the criminal’s pleasure crackled through the Bond like electricity when the detective placed his Marked palm to Jim’s neck. The tender gesture elicited both a smile and a moan, and Sherlock attempted to continue the kiss despite the fact that James was…surely that couldn’t be _laughter?_

               Of course, there was no mistaking the chuckles that shook the criminal against him, and Sherlock was starting to feel the same giddiness bubbling up inside of him. Completely perplexing was the fact that it didn’t seem to decrease his arousal at all. Different than pornography; this went against the expectations he’d developed for sex completely but… the detective couldn’t say he had any complaints about the pleasant throb this odd foreplay sent through the Bond.

               But maybe that was just the way James was looking at him. The criminal pulled back a moment to look at Sherlock and seemed to silently confirm something before it even became a full thought, before deciding to move forward to kissing the detective’s neck. Sherlock gasped quietly, leaning his head back against the wall as James took his hands out of the detective’s curls and instead placed them in his palms, pressing Sherlock’s arms up against the wall on either side of him.

               “You know exactly…what you’re doing, don’t you?” the detective halfheartedly accused.

               “Nah,” James’s lips twisted into another smile against his skin, “We should have gotten drunk again first.”

               “We were never,” Sherlock reflexively bit back a moan before he remembered that they didn’t have to worry about those sorts of precautions here. They were safe. “We were never drunk. It was the hormones.”

               The criminal gently nipped at his skin, “Aw, not my dashing good looks?”

               Sherlock freed his Marked hand from Jim’s grip, somewhat hesitantly trailing it down the criminal’s body.

               _Do it. Please do it. Sherlock, please._

They moaned collectively, James’s pleasure erasing language from their minds entirely as Sherlock put his hand _exactly_ where they’d wanted it.

               The detective felt weak at the knees when the criminal kissed him next. James pressed forward into his hand and it was far too much but somehow still wasn’t enough. He needed more of this and he needed it soon.

               “We should move to…ah…” Sherlock forgot the word. _Sleepy thing???_

               “Don’t go ordinary on me now,” the criminal warned huskily, “I like this. This talking.”

               _Yes, yes, YES,_ Sherlock agreed, “Reminds…me I’m with you.”

               “Mm,” Jim’s voice caught at the end slightly; his hands were in the detective’s hair once more, lips against lips. _Follow me then._

               Grateful for the element of playfulness still present in James’s voice, Sherlock, dazed with lust, followed the criminal towards their next game.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock caught a whiff of cologne as Jim closed the door behind him. His senses were heightened, and he was trying desperately to take in every finite detail he could possibly get ahold of.

               Jim’s flat had none of the dusty, worn smells of 221B, the detective noted. It was as though he’d just moved in today—if Sherlock hadn’t known it wasn’t true, he would likely have assumed just that. Like the rest of the flat, the bedroom had minimal furnishings, but the few it had looked expensive and modern. The walls were painted a luxurious burgundy, but the bedspread was stark white, very similar to Sherlock’s. The floors were hardwood, stained a dark color similar to the furniture. A mirror was the only ornament to be seen on the walls.

               “Are you _honestly_ critiquing the interior décor _now_ , of all times, Sherlock?” the criminal was incredulous, some of the lust gone from his voice but not from the Bond.

               With a smirk, Sherlock turned to face James, “It’s a bit…” he hesitated slightly, unsure if he could say what he wanted to with a straight face, “too neat.”

               The attempt at traditional flirting positively delighted the criminal, who started to give Sherlock a gentle shove towards the bed before his eyes and hands wandered to the first button of the detective’s shirt.

               Their eyes met, and Sherlock marveled at how James could steal the breath from his lungs even by such a tiny tug of fabric that came with undoing a button.

               The criminal was equally as fascinated, _Look at us,_ he started to undo the rest of Sherlock’s shirt, exposing more and more of his pale chest, “We’re losing our breath and we haven’t even undressed yet.”

               James’s voice grew quiet at the end of the statement as the detective shrugged off the first item of clothing, lean muscles flexing as he bared his chest completely. The air was cold, but unable to affect him in his current state, blood pumping faster than ever before at the anticipation glinting in the criminal’s large brown eyes.

               “Do me now,” the command was hushed with lust, but James snickered with glee when Sherlock smirked at the double meaning, whirling him around towards the bed, throwing him down on it with a dull thump, and climbing on top of him, one leg on either side.

               The detective fumbled slightly at a difficult button on Jim’s shirt, and the criminal grinned up at him.

               “You need help?”

               “I’ll rip it,” Sherlock threatened.

               “You’d _better not_.”

               Finally, the bloody thing came loose. The detective made quick work of the rest of James’s shirt, making a study of each new fraction of skin revealed to him. Sherlock let the criminal sit up, but slid the fabric off with his own hands. James moaned deeply as the detective’s Mark brushed his skin, speechless with arousal for a moment, just before Sherlock unceremoniously tossed the shirt onto the floor. The _floor!_

               A mischievous smirk was the detective’s only response to the warning eyebrow James raised.

               “You’re going to pay for that,” the criminal shoved Sherlock down onto his back and roughly yanked off two shoes and socks before the detective could mock his threat.

               “You going to kill me?” Sherlock teased, sitting up again to purr in Jim’s ear, “Make me fake my death?”

               James shivered as the detective started to kiss his neck again.

               _Take your shoes off. Let’s see how long it takes you,_ Sherlock started to suck, and the criminal groaned.

               “Am I allowed to move at all?” he murmured.

               “I insist.”

               Sherlock was very adamant in repeating the number of seconds it took James to remove his shoes and socks in this state. The criminal insisted that the detective had miscounted.

               The consultants shared in a mutual pang of nervousness before Sherlock wrapped his arms around the criminal from behind, fingers trailing across skin before undoing Jim’s trousers. They breathed against one another a moment, chest to back, before the detective pressed a heavy kiss to James’s cheek and undid the last button to be touched that night.

               There was hunger in the criminal’s gaze when he turned to face Sherlock. It darkened his eyes and engorged his pupils, sending a strong pulse through the Bond. Without further prompt to do so, he stood, gaze never leaving the detective as he stripped himself completely naked, pants and all.

               James pushed Sherlock onto his back and tugged the detective’s trousers off, tossing them to the side with a slightly less devilish smirk. Sherlock was still processing how good the criminal looked completely exposed.

               “Come now,” James played with the waistband of the detective’s pants, leaving Sherlock to ponder whether or not the double meaning behind the phrase was intended or a Freudian slip, “You’re just as…” he trailed off, unable to grasp a single word that could convey how he felt about Sherlock’s appearance.

               Because really, what could he say? Stunning, extraordinary, otherworldly…they all seemed quite shallow compared to how he felt about the detective.

               James slipped off Sherlock’s pants and climbed on top of him, and for the first time, the consultants observed one another in their entirety.

               The detective’s skin was smooth on Jim’s, his jaw slightly slack, blue eyes wide, not with shock or apprehension, but to ensure there wasn’t a single detail of this he didn’t remember.

               The room’s dim light cast a golden hue to their skin, making their Marks stand out even more than usual; shine a little bit brighter. _Surely_ that could only be the lighting. James’s gaze was as steady as it always was, but there was something quite heavy missing from it; something that brought his eyes to life and softened his face.

               _Pretty,_ Sherlock thought before he could stop himself, and the criminal balked.

               “Sherlock Holmes,” he raised an eyebrow, “ _What_ did you just call me?”

               Well, he couldn’t exactly take it back. The detective pulled James down to him with a sigh instead of answering, moaning as their hips and mouths met.  With kisses and touches slow and deliberate, the two explored one another for several silent minutes, a study in eroticism.

               The criminal’s collarbones were a case in themselves. Sherlock ran his hands along Jim’s back while the latter felt his chest.

               “What are…” the detective murmured in between kisses, “we going to…do about…”

               As soon as his lips were free, he couldn’t say anything more. _It would be quite irresponsible to go without discussing—_

“Mm,” James nodded, having difficulty concentrating given their current position. Sherlock was _so_ close…

               “Well, after…last time I was clean,” the detective blushed, despite the fact that another man was naked and on top of him.

               “Would you believe me if I said I was safe?” Jim inquired.

               “I can read your mind.”

               “Mm, it’s a little late anyway,” the criminal ground his hips against Sherlock’s, half to make a point and half because he was starting to get desperate for friction, “Is that a yes?”

               “You’ve got all the memories. Consulting criminal dead by HIV isn’t an ideal headline to go out by. Of course you’d visit a private doctor.”

               _No condom then._

_Suppose not._

“Good,” James started to let his hands wander again, down Sherlock’s stomach, “Because there are many more appealing topics of discussion for a time like this.”

               An obscene moan escaped the detective’s throat when Jim’s hand grasped his cock.

               “Pray t— _God—_ pray tell.”

               The criminal started to stroke, “Do you remember the counterfeit painting?”

               Sherlock smirked, “My ignorance about your favorite topic almost got someone killed,” he pushed himself into James’s palm, wishing it was the one bearing a silver Mark.

               “Wonder where it’ll get you tonight— _ow_!”

               The detective loosened his grip in the criminal’s hair slightly, continuing to pull him forward until their lips were together again, hips rutting together again more desperately.

               James groaned deeply when Sherlock delicately bit his lip.

               “The missile plans,” the detective continued in between kisses and hurried breaths, “I brought them to you and you tossed them away into the pool.”

               The criminal laughed loudly at that—not a single, harsh laugh but true, startled joy that shook his body against Sherlock’s in a dangerously stimulating way.

               “Too boring?”

               “Missile plans, or you?”  James now was devoting his time to kissing every inch of exposed skin he could find. Collarbone, neck, temple…only a matter of time before he had to move elsewhere…

               “The one you’re currently thinking about.”

               The criminal snorted, “I can’t teach missile plans the order of the planets. Not yet.”

               Sherlock, without warning, flipped James off of him, switching their positions so that he was on top. The detective held Jim tightly, Mark radiating pleasure signals as they writhed together, kisses more frantic than ever.

               Moaning deeply as Sherlock sucked on his neck, the criminal thrust his hips, sharing in the detective’s reaction as their bodies and minds were electrified with stimulation. It took them a moment to catch their breaths before James tugged Sherlock closer to him by the hair, more desperate than ever to know every inch of the detective’s body.

               “You’d,” the criminal kissed Sherlock’s lips long and sweet, “like that, wouldn’t you?” he continued.

               “Mm…and now I’d know how to stop you,” the detective ground his hips against James’s once more, cataloguing the criminal’s reaction; the way he threw back his head and arched his back. His face transformed completely when he was overtaken by pleasure, and it made Sherlock wonder who else had been allowed to see James like this.

               “Sherl, if we keep this going… _yes, that_ …we’re going to be done before anyone can actually-”

               “I’m topping.”

               Jim froze, raising his head to look at the detective, “Pardon?” he raised an eyebrow, both apprehensive and curious.

               Sherlock licked his lips, “You’ve only done it with women.”

               The criminal frowned, “You looked through-”

               “Just a peek. No harm done.”

               “ _Sherlock-”_

“Though I will note that you seem a great deal more enthusiastic now than you did at climax with them.”

               “ _How much did you-?”_

“It was a very brief overview. Not my fault you seemed to categorize ‘unspectacular climax’ that way.”

               James moaned loudly, “It’s boring with other people. I keep telling you I’m not-”

               “I know. But, _logically_ speaking, because I’ve been with a man-”

               “You get to top,” the criminal finished, “I’m not objecting.” How could he? Sherlock’s weight on top of him was nothing sort of divine. It was nice to be held, and the detective’s logic _was_ sound—the more experienced should have more control.

               Sherlock breathed, “Okay.”

               James watched him a moment with dark eyes. _There’s lubricant in the drawer at your left._

The detective found it easily and methodically spread some over his fingers, glistening wetly in the low light. Their gazes met for an intimate second, the criminal’s expectant and glinting with a challenging sort of lust, and Sherlock forgot any worries he may still have been harboring, nudging James’s legs apart and slipping a finger inside.

               The pain was instantaneous; spiking through the Bond like a knife, Jim tensing up around Sherlock with a gasp while the detective started. 

               “Are you alright?” he demanded, rather alarmed.

               “Relax,” James reassured hoarsely, “I’m fine, just…go slow.”

               Sherlock complied, and the room grew quiet save for their labored breathing and skin against sheets, with the occasional sigh or grunt from James as the detective worked him. Sherlock supposed there was something pleasant about this. This simple company as they pushed themselves closer. He longed, however, to hear the criminal’s voice and, as James grew more comfortable and more full, they started speaking once more.

               “Can you still recite the planets?” the criminal started to smirk, but his facial expression changed entirely when Sherlock curled his fingers, eliciting a collective moan from deep in their throats as the Bond sent a pulse of pleasure out to every nerve in their bodies.

               “ _God_ , no,” the detective gritted his teeth. It felt like his whole body was thrumming with need. James’s voice was doing nothing to help that; just hearing the criminal speak was intoxicating.

               Of course, that was the exact reason they’d agreed speaking made this better.

               “You’re brilliant, you know,” James murmured, “Resplendent. Cosmic.”

               “You’re,” Sherlock removed his fingers carefully before hastily spreading a layer of lubricant over his cock and lining himself up, “sounding sentimental.”

               “I think _oh…”_ the criminal held on to Sherlock as the detective pushed himself inside, head thrown back in appreciation of this new sensation, “I think I feel…sentimental.”

               Sherlock breathed, all of his willpower focused on _not_ losing himself to orgasm then and there. He was not unpleasantly hot, as was James underneath him, who met his gaze with almost black eyes as the detective felt the muscles in his arms, Marked hand sending a shiver through the criminal that did interesting things to the way they were entwined.

               “Then perhaps,” Sherlock pressed a heavy kiss to James’s lips, the criminal moaning happily into his mouth, “We should stop.”

               “Bastard,” Jim’s voice had reached a sultry low, his accent seeming even more prevalent as his arousal grew, “You’d regret _that_ ,” the word took on a new meaning as the detective angled his hips slightly differently, making both consultants weak with pleasure. “Do that again.”

               Sherlock debated continuing to give James a hard time about it, but his body managed to convince his mind, just this once, to keep quiet and comply. At this point, it was in his best interest.

               They repeated the motion, a bit more forceful this time, their voices intermingling in a flurry of sweet nothings and gasps both high and low. James had short fingernails, but they still scratched at Sherlock’s back, often in time with the criminal’s more erotic moans. The detective’s hands, meanwhile, were constantly shifting position, desperately trying to catalogue what the tensing of each and every one of James’s muscles felt like, which made for more erratic thrusts as he tried to maintain his balance, but nonetheless added to the stimulation all the same, the criminal groaning deeply whenever Sherlock’s Marked palm found a new home.

               They continued that way for God knew how long. Sherlock had concluded prior that there really wasn’t any way to know the time they were _supposed_ to continue for. It certainly didn’t feel like a terribly long time, but then again, it wasn’t embarrassingly short, either. Perhaps that was because they didn’t have practice with this—Sherlock didn’t know. All he knew was that the thought of coming undone had steadily increased from an exciting fantasy to the most mouthwatering desire he’d ever felt in his life. Their hands grew more desperate; pulling hair and clawing at sheets and any exposed skin they could reach. Breathing became more labored and pulses spiked and _Christ_ , Sherlock needed this and he knew James needed it and this _had_ to happen as soon as possible. The detective picked up his pace, his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes.

               “Sher…” the criminal breathed, looking up at the object of his desires, “We’re-”

               “I know,” Sherlock grunted, “How do you want-?”

               James _actually_ paused to think.

               “Quickly!” the detective hastily pushed. James wouldn’t _get_ a choice if he took too long to decide.

               _Inside._

               The rest of it happened rather quickly. Sherlock took James’s cock in his Marked hand and, with a last thrust, gasped. Everything around him seemed to go white with ecstasy; he heard his name and uttered the only one he could remember at the moment, lost to orgasm with, as far as he was concerned, the only other person in the universe.

(o0o0o0o0)

               When James came to, Sherlock was already getting off of him. He felt sticky and dazed and more than a little bit sore; if he hadn’t been exhausted, as well, he would have suggested to the detective they take a shower together. The criminal didn’t want to ruin his post orgasmic state with something so mundane as checking the time, but he estimated it had to be around three in the morning; a bit late for a shower when the second most appealing thing in the world to him, at the moment, was sleep.

               The most enticing, however, was remaining conscious. He’d slept unbelievably well last time he’d shared a bed with Sherlock, so falling asleep now meant he surely would spend a good eight hours without enjoying the detective’s presence—a prospect that seemed almost as grim as telling Sherlock to leave.

               They took a moment to catch their breath, the smells of sweat and sex in the air. James ran a hand through his damp hair, his arm brushing against Sherlock, now lying next to him. Brown and blue eyes studied the ceiling.

               “It was good,” the detective suddenly remarked.

               A surprised snort of laughter escaped James, who turned on his side. Sherlock spoke as though they were reviewing a soufflé. The criminal grinned at his partner.

               The detective raised an eyebrow, “What?”

               James voiced the soufflé comparison, despite the fact that Sherlock had already heard it.

               “Sex holds the same amount of significance,” the detective muttered, and James hit him with a pillow.

               “This _soufflé_ ,” he purred, leaning in close, “has my arse unbelievably sore. Appreciate it.”

               Sherlock smirked before leaning back into his pillows, “Apologies,” he murmured, assuming his preferred mind palace pose.

               The criminal watched him for a moment before sighing and sidling up to the detective. They lazily chased one another’s thoughts for a while, pulses slowing, and before they knew it, they’d cooled down completely. Sherlock opened his eyes when a shiver passed through James’s exposed frame, but the criminal stopped him with a hand on the arm when he started to pull a blanket over them.

               “We should-” James yawned, sitting up and wincing, “We should get a towel.”

               Sherlock’s features were a question mark, and the criminal fixed him with a pointed stare. It was a moment before the detective understood what James was talking about.

               _Ah._

_Attaboy. Wanna get it?_

“Mhm,” Sherlock complied, grabbing the first he saw from the master bathroom, and throwing himself down on the bed like he’d just run a marathon.

               Once they were settled again, sleep seemed much more inviting to James. Neither of them were fond of it in everyday life, but right now almost nothing seemed more tempting than to close their eyes and just drift.

               The sudden change in opinion was almost suspicious. The criminal decided to resist it, even if just for a bit longer.

               “I agree,” he drawled, face close to Sherlock’s on the pillow, “It was,” he yawned again, “good.”

               The detective’s pupils still searched James’s face, collecting data even as sleep heavied his eyelids.

               There was something analytical in his gaze. Something a bit unsure and, more than anything, sentimental. James of course knew what it was, but he ignored Sherlock’s thoughts for the time being, in the name of privacy.

               “What was that you were thinking of, a few minutes ago?” the question escaped the detective’s lips before he could think to stop it; he was so at ease that it was almost frightening how little consequence of any sort seemed to matter.

               James cocked an eyebrow. Of course, they’d been thinking of a lot within the course of the past few minutes. He knew what Sherlock was referring to, but hearing him say it aloud was the only way he was going to comment on it.

               There was a moment of silence before the detective spoke again, admitting defeat in the name of post orgasmic tenderness.

               “Do you still make them?”

               He, of course, was referring to star charts. James had never really tried to actively hide them from Sherlock, but he’d still been a bit startled when the memory showed itself a few minutes prior. The criminal had drawn them often when he was younger, barely an adolescent, first with precise diligence and slowly with less and less care as boredom and depression reared their ugly heads. Soon they’d begun to only show their faces in school notebooks; accuracy getting lost in absentminded scribbles. Eventually, he’d stopped altogether. He’d never really considered why.

               James knew why. Sherlock knew why. But talking about it felt more like a resolution than did assuming they both knew everything about the situation already. Despite being capable of reading one another’s minds, the criminal and the detective still had much to learn about one another.

               “I think,” James replied, “you know the answer to that.”

               Sherlock breathed, watching the criminal with a strange mixture of patience and anticipation, “Why?”

               A smirk tugged at James’s lips.

               _I won’t make you one. I’ve forgotten how and it’s three am._

_You forget I can read your mind._

_No, but I’ve forgotten how to make star charts. They’re not important._

_To you they are,_ the detective thought of how James’s eyes lit up when he looked at the night sky. That was not the face of apathy, and they both knew it.

               In fact, that was the face that was blinking back at him.

               After a brief silence, the criminal finally conceded, “ _Fine,_ ” he sighed wearily, half sitting up, “Paper and pencil are in the desk. I’ll need something to write on.”

               A part of James almost wished he hadn’t had either at hand; the same part that accelerated his pulse with a few pinpricks of nerves. Ordinarily, seeing Sherlock walk across the room naked would have evoked an entirely different emotion, but all the criminal could currently feel was that bit of fear poking at his bubble of calm. Perhaps it was ridiculous to be nervous over something so arbitrary, mere pencil and paper, but…

               He still felt it, and when the detective came back, watching him expectantly (just _like_ Sherlock—James normally adored his scrutiny for the most minute of details, but now he almost felt irritated at the extra pressure), the criminal balanced the pencil in his hand, allowing it to hover above the paper. How long had it been since he’d done this? It had to be more than two decades.

               “What would you think of me if I’d forgotten?” he asked suddenly, turning to meet the detective’s gaze, which, as it almost always did, retained its steady, blue, analytical calm.

               “I know you haven’t.”

               And just like that, all of James’s nerves were soothed. This was just a case. Just Sherlock. He’d never failed to deliver even the most impossibly perfect work for the detective, and he certainly wouldn’t be starting today, with the subject he knew more about than anything else.

               Well, he used to. Some of it was a little bit rusty, since he’d started feeling really desolate. So despite the fact that _he_ had some vague reassurance that the information was somewhere in memory, it was more than a bit encouraging to get a second opinion that he did, in fact, remember, and wasn’t just getting cocky.

               “You start,” the criminal murmured, making a mark at the center of the paper; a tiny graphite star, “From a central point.”

               Sherlock watched with the attentiveness of a scholar.       

               “Ideally you’d use a protractor and a ruler,” James allowed, lightly sketching out a line from the first point.

               “Why don’t you?”

               “It’s three in the morning.”

               As if the last statement had reminded him to feel tired, Sherlock yawned, leaning his head on James’s arm, which was now scratching away at the paper a bit more quickly, invigorating the criminal with a very simple sort of happiness he hadn’t felt in a very long time.

               “Ursa Major,” James labeled the first constellation, feeling the detective nod tiredly, curls soft against his bare skin. As an afterthought, he added, “The great bear.”

               Sherlock scoffed, “Don’t tell me it’s supposed to look like a bear.”

               “Afraid so.”

               “What, are those the _legs?_ ”

               “Mhm,” James started a new constellation, and the detective dropped the subject, watching with fascination and more than a little bit of adoration.

               “Ursa minor?” Sherlock read the criminal’s thoughts, “Little bear.”

               “I might have been impressed if we weren’t Bonded.”

               The detective was mildly indignant. _You hold me to such low standards._

_You didn’t even know the solar system before you had me, dearest._

Sherlock huffed as James started to draw again, this time a long, winding path of stars.

               “Draco,” he murmured, turning to the detective, “Dragon.” _For a dragon slayer._

Sherlock smirked at the reference. How strange it was that they had once been on such malicious terms, that the knight would end up bedding the dragon.

               “I love you,” the detective realized it as the words left his lips. Truly, he did. And yet, it seemed clear as day, now that he said it aloud. As far as he knew, he’d always loved James. Hating the criminal seemed strange now, as opposed to loving him, and any memories of the two of them before the Bond were tinted rose, run through with veins of silver.

               A soft warmth spread through James’s chest, sunlight after a long winter. It took him a moment to respond.

               “The sentiment is reciprocated, Sherlock.”

               And he continued to draw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it’s been a while. Put down the pitchforks. I’ve been going through a pretty rough time mentally (which I’ve been saying for a while, I know, but if anything that’s proof), so it’s been hard to do weekly or even bi weekly updates. However, the good news is, I have been feeling a bit better, and school is coming to an end! Yay! Which means I will be happier, and updates will probably be a bit quicker. I won’t promise anything, but I think things are looking up, yes? So let me know what you thought in the comments, and we’ll get this story back on track faster than you can say “What about Mycroft?”!
> 
> Also reminder that I love you guys for reading <3 Writing is my world and without readers I think I'd just lose myself to space. Y'all are a big force of gravity for me.


	33. Cavus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for ableist and homophobic slurs.

               James awoke in a warm tangle of arms and blankets, his own consciousness nudging Sherlock out of sleep. The detective’s breathing hitched before being released in a half sigh half groan as he stretched awake.

               The criminal rolled onto his back and regretted it immediately, wincing at the soreness left from the night before. Next to him, Sherlock yawned, and a moment later, James couldn’t stop himself from copying. He blinked, eyelids heavy, trying to get adjusted to the dim light. Without windows to allow sunlight into the room, this wasn’t overwhelmingly difficult, but it was still tough to resist the urge to bury his face in a pillow and go back to sleep.

               “Morning,” Sherlock greeted deeply, blinking at the ceiling.

               The criminal smirked tiredly, noticing for the first time the paper sitting creased between him and the detective. It looked like the pencil and the notebook he’d drawn on must have fallen off the bed.

               “Good morning, Sherlock,” James rolled over, regarding the detective with sleepy brown eyes. Sherlock turned to look at him, and they lay that way for a quiet moment before the criminal remembered something rather depressing.

               _I’m almost afraid to check the time._

Sherlock cursed. They must have gone to sleep around four or four thirty am. Who knew how late in the day it must be already? Moreover, who knew what sort of panic was taking place at 221B?

               _Christ. It won’t be good._

_Care to do the honors?_

The detective threw a pillow that was falling off the bed over his shoulder at James when he rolled over. The numbers on the digital clock that faced him, when his view was finally unobstructed, were not kind.

               2:39 pm.

               _Fuck,_ the criminal snickered quietly at what would likely be awaiting Sherlock at home.

               _Indeed. I have absolutely no recollection of where my phone is,_ the detective sat up, stomach rumbling.

 _Well, you were busy last night with other things,_ James copied the motion, acutely aware of his soreness once again. He hoped that didn’t linger for too long. _You hungry?_

 _A bit,_ Sherlock replied, despite the fact that his stomach was growling. James watched with amusement as he crawled across the bed to look for where his clothing rested on the criminal’s side. After a moment, the detective had pulled on his pants from the night before, and was sitting on James’s legs, fingers a blur as he texted. 

               The criminal pulled himself out from under Sherlock, embracing the detective from behind and watching him type over his shoulder.

               _I counted seven panicked messages,_ Sherlock recounted.

               _Good God._

**I’m fine. Don’t involve the Yard or Mycroft. Should be back in a few hours. SH**

A moment later, there was a reply from John.

               **Thank Christ, Sherlock. JW**

**Call me. JW**

The detective’s shoulders rose and fell in a laborious sigh, taking James with them. The criminal grinned when Sherlock pressed call.

               “ _Sherlock?”_

“John, I’ve been gone for longer than this before,” the detective snapped, quite irritated save for the fact that James was nibbling on his shoulder.

               _“Well now hold on!”_ the doctor protested, _“This isn’t because you’re with Mor—with Jim, Sherlock. As strange as that is. Mycroft is on a mission, and he-”_

“How do you know?”

               There was a moment of silence.

               _“Greg’s here. He mentioned something about it.”_

There was a just barely audible sound of protest in the background that was very quickly hushed.

               _He’s lying,_ James and Sherlock thought simultaneously. Interesting. That would be something to pry about later.

               “I see,” the detective pursed his lips, “I’ll be back in a few hours. We just woke up.”

               _“You just—It’s two in the afternoon!”_ John’s indignance had the criminal silently wheezing at Sherlock’s side, and the detective couldn’t keep himself from smirking.

               _Despite being the most bloodthirsty criminal mastermind the world has ever known, I still have standards enough to own a clock,_ James commented.

               Sherlock snorted, struggling to cover the voice piece in time.

               _“Are you two laughing at me?”_ there was a hint of a smile in John’s voice, and the criminal on a whim snatched the phone from Sherlock, before he could protest.

               “ _Never_ , Doctor Watson.”

               Sherlock grabbed it back before James could do any real damage, “Apologies. Yes. I should be back in an hour or so.”

               _“Right,”_ John trailed off, his voice suddenly distracted, _“Well, we’re out of milk, so on your way-”_

His voice was cut off when Sherlock, to James’s amusement, ended the call. The criminal leaned in close, grinning.

               “You’re like an old married couple,” he cooed, lightly kissing Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective only scoffed, refusing to acknowledge the one, glaring flaw in that statement.

               Sherlock turned to look at the criminal, who was still fussing over him and giving little intimate nips to his neck and shoulders, his Marked hand warm and wandering. The detective opened his mouth to speak, but was distracted by a playful kiss.

               _I was_ going _to say you need to draw those more._

James pulled away to look at him, caught off guard by the mention of his star charts. Though ‘chart’ in the singular would perhaps be more accurate. It hurt to hear Sherlock talk like this; the criminal wished he’d kissed a bit more deeply, so that the conversation could have been avoided.

               _You know I can’t. You know this will never be like that._

The detective’s eyes were an intense blue, seeming to draw James into their cool depths, “Try.”

               It wasn’t so much a suggestion as it was a demand, but Sherlock’s conviction only managed to twist the criminal’s heart even more. To see Sherlock so captivated that he was making such irrational claims, assuming such an _optimistic_ thought process was both out of character and uncomfortable.

               And yet, after watching the detective for another silent moment, the steadiness of Sherlock’s eyes seemed to seep into his proposal.

               By God, Sherlock wanted him to do something for his own _happiness._ It was such a mundane exchange, and yet it was as strange to James as though they’d both woken up on Mars.

               With the detective still watching him, James cracked a familiar toothy smile, suddenly just as elated as he’d been a few moments ago. He felt very warm.

               “Sherlock…” the criminal muttered the name like a curse, shaking his head.

               “Didn’t have to be such a big deal,” Sherlock grumbled, looking away so that when James pinned him on his back, he fell with a surprised huff on blankets and slightly creaking springs.

               “No,” the criminal stopped Sherlock before he could open his mouth, brown eyes alight with energy, “Sherlock…” he struggled to find words before they seemed to just gently float into his conscious, like feathers from down pillow.

               _I_ am _happy._

The detective pondered this revelation for a moment. That _that_ was what this was. That was this ease and eagerness that seemed to have walked into his life the day Molly Hooper had introduced her ‘office romance’ at the hospital. This was what it was like to be in love with James Moriarty, and as painful as he’d thought it with every other experience with romance he’d had…he was starting to think that none of those had been real love at all. Perhaps true love showed itself in the form of balance.

               Quite frankly, he wasn’t certain he cared about the theory at the moment, with the tangent the criminal’s thoughts were diverging off on.

               _Are you really in any condition for that?_ Sherlock inquired, regarding the intriguing ‘shared shower’ idea that James had just been playing with.

               The criminal frowned and wrapped a sheet around himself, starting towards the master bath.

               “You do too much research, Holmes.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Their shower was surprisingly quick, yet there was present a casual intimacy in the simple act of trust that Sherlock quite enjoyed; it was one less thing to think about. And as much as he had enjoyed the night before, and the _idea_ of pornographic shower sex, he couldn’t say that he was disappointed in the lack of anything besides cleaning and silent discussion; they had already wasted a good deal of time and it would be a nightmare if Mycroft got too nervous and found them like this. Not to mention, Sherlock could tell from the occasional dull throbs of pain through the Bond that James _was_ in fact a bit too sore to be doing anything so soon.

               The rest of the morning lacked much discussion. Breakfast (though at this hour it was much closer to dinner) passed in a quiet filled with the smells of eggs, bacon, and toast with a dash of coy glances and brushes of shoulders. Given how long James had lingered at this residence, his spice collection was still far more extensive than 221B’s.

               Finally, after they’d stalled the inevitable for an incredibly conspicuous amount of time, Sherlock decided that no amount of James’s company was worth having it taken away if Mycroft decided to search them out. Hopefully John hadn’t decided to chatter too much about his lack of company—though God knew he was controlled by emotion enough to do it. Emotions, the detective mused, were strange phenomena.

               “Will be happening again?” James posed the question just as Sherlock was heading out the door, his scarf finally back around his neck and smelling like the criminal’s cologne. The detective stopped in his tracks before turning around.

               “All good experiments,” he smirked, “Are repeated several times in different conditions.”

               “You know I expect the best from you.”

               “And I you,” Sherlock thoughts were filled with graphite constellations. _Keep drawing._ “And while you’re at it,” he added as an afterthought, “see if Moran is good for anything other than cleaning up his own messes. I need a case.”

               “We’ll see,” James said obscurely, a bit frightened at the fact that he didn’t really _feel_ like orchestrating any heists at the moment. Sherlock seemed infinitely more intriguing than the phone calls he really ought to be making.

               The detective left with a wink, and a blushing James pulled out a laptop to contact a client, mildly paranoid that, somehow, this imbecile could sense his current emotional state.

               It was a bit difficult to play a monster when he no longer wanted to be one.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian took a shot of whiskey, wondering if this was what a formidable assassin for hire looked like. Sitting on the rooftop of an abandoned building on the outskirts of London, the wind biting at his skin but having little effect on his hair, which had gone unwashed for far too long. He looked dead—there were dark circles under his eyes the last time he’d seen his reflection, and he appeared to have dropped a few pounds. Not in a good way, like he’d been working out, but in the way that made him wonder if one day he’d look like some of the women he saw with food problems; like a walking skeleton.

               He _felt_ like a walking skeleton.

               As mystifying as Moriarty’s call to him the other day had been, he really didn’t think, in retrospect, that it meant anything. Moriarty was a criminal mastermind; the greatest in the world. He had probably gotten drunk off something and dialed Sebastian as a joke to see his reaction. Jim was clearly fucking insane, so who was to say this wasn’t part of his normal routine? Or as ‘normal’ as he could get.

               Bottom line was, Sebastian had concluded at the release of a bullet marking that he was halfway finished with his current assignment, there was nothing he was good for but this. Hooper had been a stupid distraction from the grim reality that he was useless when he wasn’t killing. Looking back, the Army had been the only other time he’d really felt like he belonged, and what the hell did they do? Kill.

               Whatever. Life wasn’t a fucking episode of Glee. It was blood and cold and then you died. He might as well just try not to screw up the rest of his time here before he inevitably went to Hell.

               Sebastian picked up his phone and dialed his least favorite number, taking one last swig of alcohol while it rang. Maybe he should have texted. He really didn’t need to hear Moriarty’s lilting voice sing songing about how stupid he was.

               The sniper hung up, and struggled to type a text instead.

               **Half wat as promise d SM**

A text came relatively quickly.

               **Sebastian, if you are drunk again, I promise to exsanguinate you as soon as you are sober. JM**

He didn’t know what the fuck exsanguini was, but it sure as hell sounded like a threat. Sebastian felt attacked, and started typing quickly. The tremor in his hands courtesy of the freezing cold and a lack of nutrition, combined with the fact that the letters were all starting to blend together, seemed to have other plans.

               **I di f what you wan ted I dk wh t you want SM**

**I don’t want a drunk as my first in command. JM**

**sorry boss SM**

Sebastian brought the bottle to his lips again. It was a little while before Moriarty responded. The sniper became distracted enough by the sunset in this time that when his phone lit up once more, it surprised him. For a fleeting second, he thought it was Molly.

               **Where are you? JM**

Ha. So this was it then. Moriarty was going to come and kill him for his lack of that ‘can do!’ attitude the rest of the world seemed to have. Sebastian knew he should be afraid, but all he felt was exhaustion and vague nausea. He felt numb; his shaking hands felt like they belonged to another person.

               Who cared if he died? Obviously Moriarty would have fun with it; live up to the legends. Sebastian had seen that Mary girl buried alive, just for trying to change jobs. Imagine what would happen to _him_ if he continued to disrespect the criminal.

               Because he was feeling shitty, Sebastian decided to ensure just that. He was done. Might as well go down in the legends.

               **w herer are YOU? SM**

**Answer me. JM**

Sebastian wanted to say something mean. Something that would hit this fucking bastard like a punch to his Westwood covered stomach.

**danc inG to glee wth your detective boyfriend SM**

**No. You’re behaving ridiculously. JM**

**yuros o fucking gay SM**

The sniper took another swig of alcohol and had to fight the urge to throw his phone off the roof when a response came through.

               **You are so fucking drunk. Last chance. Where are you? JM**

Sebastian’s heartbeat hammered in his ears. He wasn’t sure why he was suddenly so angry, but for some reason, he wanted to punch Moriarty and beat him bloody and _show him_ who was the fucking drunk. Fuck him. Sebastian didn’t care anymore. All he wanted was to tear a few more things apart for no reason before he died. Because life didn’t give you reasons when it screwed you over. It just did. So Sebastian didn’t need a reason to say what he did next.

               **no I mean yours really fuckings gay. jim moriarty you are a fusckgin facggo t and no one in youre ‘empire’ is gver going to resproet your bevaiyse tou ;iewk it ys yje sff. an d your tjikn yoir so smsrt, bt toire so hay yhat uoill be frsd gtp, sids in s gwe dqys w hen you gu k y oiew dherl ; ck SM**

A hysterical, _mad_ laugh escaped the sniper after he hit send. He was only half aware of it.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Molly, ordinarily, did not answer calls from unknown numbers, so when the phone first rang, she ignored it completely and let it go to voicemail. The second time, however, upon recognizing it as the same number as a few moments prior, she set her book aside and picked up.

               When the caller spoke, she nearly had a heart attack.

               _“Miss Hooper, so nice to have a proper chat, after all this time,”_ came the familiar Irish drawl that sent a little chill down her spine.

               She shook her head. Right. Sherlock. Sherlock and Jim were Bonded now and Jim…mightn’t be quite so bad now that he had to interact with normal people on a regular basis. Not that Sherlock was really ‘normal’, but…she supposed that perhaps for her own sake, Jim would adopt the same persona he had when they’d been dating. Sweet, shy, bit awkward, but she didn’t judge for that.

               Pulse hammering in her ears, Molly found her voice, “You’ve probably taken precautions so that no one can listen in on this call.”

               _“I don’t know what you’re talking about,”_ there was a tinge of friendly sarcasm in Jim’s voice, which was oddly effective in soothing her nerves. She let out the breath she’d been holding.

“Right. Of course. Haha.”

               _“How’s Toby?”_

“Toby?” Molly glanced towards the tabby currently raking his claws down the leg of a chair, “He’s, erm, still giving my furniture hell. But that’s just him, I suppose. When Sebastian and I—oh, sorry, I’m getting off track. You probably don’t want to hear about my failed relationships with subordinates in the underworld. Not that I’m not certain you have good connections-”

               _“That’s what I’m calling about,”_ Jim cut her off, suddenly all business, _“I need a favor.”_

Molly paused, surprised, “A favor?”

               _“Yes, regarding Sebastian.”_

“…what is it?” Molly bit her lip, nervous in spite of herself for Moran.

               _“He’s drunk on a rooftop on the outskirts of London. Quite drunk. I’d like for you to bring him home.”_

She blinked, nonplussed, “Wha—why? You have so many resources at your hands, I’m sure you could have anyone else do it…” How the bloody hell was _she_ supposed to navigate the outskirts of the city and live? Why not Sherlock, or _anyone else?_

               Jim sighed, actually sounding rather tired, _“Actually, I can’t. I hypothesize he’s only going to cooperate with you. He’s being…difficult. Between the two of us, I think this was triggered by his little spat with you. Not that I blame you for this…childishness.”_

“You’d like for me to bring him…home?” Molly clarified, scolding Toby when she finished.

               _“...If you wouldn’t mind.”_

The line grew very quiet.

               “I _do_ mind,” Molly confessed softly, “If you hadn’t Bonded with Sherlock, you’d have ruined him. I used to be a pawn in your game, and now you’re calling up _favors?_ How do I know you’re not going to kill Sebastian after I bring him to you? I couldn’t live with myself if I-”

               _“I know what I did,”_ Jim responded after a pause, _“I promise that no harm will come to him.”_

“And me? And Sherlock? And my family? And-?”

               _“Yes, Molly,”_ Jim sounded impatient, “ _All of them. But this favor cannot wait and it would be safer for Moran if I knew you were going to decline sooner rather than later-”_

Molly huffed, thinking. She should have hung up the phone long ago. Just because Jim was with Sherlock didn’t guarantee he thought of her as anything other than a tool to get what he wanted. Sebastian was in his same boat; he was a dangerous criminal and he probably could do a lot of damage to her life if she wanted. Not to mention, he was apparently a drunk. This wasn’t safe at all, and Jim was perfectly capable of evading anything Mycroft threw at him if he really needed to.

               And yet…she couldn’t bear the thought of just leaving Sebastian’s fate up to chance. He was a criminal, and he made bad choices, and _God_ was he an ignorant prick sometimes, but…he’d also listened to her. And danced with her, and smiled at her with those puppy dog eyes. There was a boyish warmth to Sebastian that could survive to light her life, if she helped protect him from himself.

               “I’ll do it.”

               _“Thank you. I shall send you his location.”_

“How-?” Molly frowned before cutting herself off. Perhaps it was better to not ask too many questions about this.

               _“You’ll be safe, don’t worry.”_

Somehow, she didn’t feel entirely reassured, but it was too late to turn back now.

“His flat?”          

               _“Please.”_

Molly hung up the phone, musing over how strange it was to talk to Jim after all this time. To her ears, he’d sounded exactly the same as when she first met him.

               Well, if she was going to be doing something this dangerous, she might as well not push her luck much further. Perhaps it was time for her to call in a favor of her own.

(o0o0o0o0)

               James was surprised when Sebastian was dragged in accompanied not just by Molly, but also by a rather grumpy looking Detective Lestrade.

               Molly ducked out from under the inebriated sniper’s arm, leaving Greg struggling with his full weight. The silver haired man stumbled back a few paces before throwing Sebastian off of him and onto a dusty sofa with a grunt _,_ breathing heavily.

               The criminal took a sip of the drink he’d made himself from Sebastian’s alcohol as two pairs of eyes turned to him—the sniper was already unconscious.

               He raised his eyebrows, “Thank you,” he dismissed them.

               Greg’s jaw might as well have been on the floor, “What, so you’ve just been _waiting_ here?”

               James rolled his eyes, “Detective Inspector, there are pictures in old newspapers of the day I stole the crown jewels…”

               “No, but-!” Lestrade was incredulous, “I’m sure it wasn’t hard to get _in_ here. But why the bloody hell couldn’t you just do this yourself? He’s _your_ sniper!”

               It appeared Sherlock had been correct earlier—John had lied, and Lestrade was less in the know about the Mycroft situation than the doctor had implied. Now _why_ John would want to lie about something so trivial remained to be seen, but it was certainly curious…

The criminal waved his Marked palm at Lestrade pointedly, the silver glistening in the low light, a statement in itself.

               Greg closed his mouth, but his gaze was still clouded with confusion and suspicion.

               “Big Brother Holmes isn’t pleased. We used to have an understanding; two powers willing to leave one another alone, sometimes even act together for the sake of efficiency, but he is _very_ protective of Sherlock. Any truce we’d had no longer exists. In addition, Sebastian is a child and I hypothesized he would only cooperate if Molly was the one to retrieve him.”

               Lestrade pondered the validity of this excuse, glancing from Sebastian back to James, and finally, slowly, shaking his head.

               “You tried to kill Sherlock. Is that all gone now?”

               “You didn’t exactly try to stop me,” James parried.

               “My hands were tied!” Greg protested.

               “As are mine,” the criminal let his gaze fall onto his palm before bringing it back to meet Lestrade’s.

               The detective inspector’s expression softened slightly, pensive.

               “I have to ask.”

               “I’d have held it against you if you didn’t,” James responded politely. He couldn’t say he wasn’t impressed by how much these people cared for Sherlock.

               The detective, back at 221B, took a moment from his violin to interject, _Doesn’t make it less annoying._

_Hush._

Molly had been staring at the snoozing Sebastian the entire conversation, a pained expression on her face. The sniper’s skin was pale and his hair greasy and unwashed, his features more bony than usual.

               He was slipping. James was starting to wonder if he’d bitten off more than he could chew with this. Maybe he should have just let the poor boy kill himself.

               For whatever reason, the idea didn’t seem quite as…insignificant as it once would have. It seemed like a waste, to be quite frank.

               “Molly,” the criminal said quietly, making both her and Lestrade start slightly. He nodded towards the door, a silent invitation to leave.

               Her mouth opened and closed for a moment as she struggled for words, “…Jim, please don’t-”

               “I’ve told you I won’t.”

               “Please. I know I acted like he didn’t matter but I still won’t ever forgive myself if I was the reason-”

               “You’re right next door,” James rolled his eyes.

               “Why would you help him?” Lestrade interjected accusingly, “It makes zero sense.”

               The criminal sighed loudly, as if to make a point, “Don’t make me change my mind.”

               Molly locked eyes with him, her gaze surprisingly heavy with meaning before she turned to leave. After a moment, Lestrade followed, but not before pausing, one last time, to look back at James, shaking his head.

               “He’s just a kid.”

               The words seemed to linger in the air after he shut the door, leaving the criminal and his sniper alone in the darkened flat. Looking at the wasted child in front of him, James was hyper aware that he knew very well how young Sebastian was. Young and naïve and very, very lost.

               _And ignorant. Spoiled,_ Sherlock commented, _Don’t know why you’ve taken to him suddenly._

_I don’t, either._

James took another sip of Sebastian’s liquor. He found himself wishing, for Moran’s sake, that they’d never met.

(o0o0o0o0)

               When Sebastian woke, the first thing he was aware of was the pain.

               He’d been drunk before, sure, but this was skull splitting; a new low. It was impossible to recount how many bottles he’d been through the day before. It was also impossible to fathom how he could be so many different kinds of miserable at once. His stomach was rolling, his head hurt like hell, and it was so goddamn _bright…_

               “Oh, good. You’re awake,” an all too familiar voice pounded on the inside of his skull.

               _Kill me now. Dear God, it’s Sebastian. Kill me now. Please. Before this psycho gets his hands on me._

Sebastian wasn’t sure why he’d thought anyone would hear him, but after a moment of anticipation, he groaned. Fuck. Fuck this. This was worse than any Hell. Maybe he should have prayed to Jim instead.

               He heard Moriarty sigh, and the sound of a glass being put down. Sebastian covered his eyes with his arm, only to nearly jump out of his _skin_ when cold hands pulled him up into a sitting position.

               He flinched away, opening his eyes reflexively and vaguely recognizing his flat. The visual onslaught seemed to knock all the breath out of his lungs as his head pounded and his stomach churned.

               Maybe he could vomit on Moriarty as one last ditch effort to bring the criminal some misery before he killed Sebastian. The look on his face would no doubt be satisfying, but he doubted he’d live very long to enjoy it. Actually, it wouldn’t be a very dignified way to go, either. Sebastian liked to think he could die with at least a bit of his tattered pride left.

               “Sebastian, look at me,” each Irish accented word was its own unique form of torture, like spikes being hammered into his skull.

               The sniper closed his eyes and let his muscles go limp—the last thing he wanted to do right now was see Moriarty. He was satisfied when he was released and allowed to drop back onto the sofa with a thump.

               His contentment was put to an abrupt end, however, when something wet and ice cold and very, very painful hit his face. Gasping and sputtering, Sebastian shot up so quickly he almost completely lost the contents of his stomach, and, after blinking the water from his eyes, saw Moriarty standing over him with what must have been formerly a glass full of ice water.

               Forgetting himself, Sebastian said the first _logical_ thing that came to mind, “What the _fuck_ was that for?”

               His boss appeared unfazed by the expletive, and turned to set the empty glass down before spinning to face Sebastian again with a look in his eyes that was more than a little scary.

               The sniper stared, “What?” he challenged, practically spitting the word.

               Jim’s eyes were black as night, “Go take a shower.” The command was so soft that it didn’t even hurt Sebastian’s head, and while he would ordinarily have brushed it off, it actually sent a chill up his arms.

               “Why?” Sebastian hated the way his voice wavered, “So you can watch me and j-”

               The criminal sighed quietly, pulling out a gun and pointing it at Sebastian with a very distinctive click. Their gazes locked once more.

               “Shower or die, huh?” Sebastian lowered his volume to lessen the assault on his skull. _What the fuck is this about? Just kill me already._

“Please.”

               Slowly, almost feeling as though his limbs were not his own, Sebastian rose, his eyes never leaving Jim’s. The world felt like it was spinning around him, so it took a moment to get his balance, but once he was sure he could take a step without falling, he finally broke eye contact with Moriarty, trudging to the bathroom and praying that the purpose of this exercise wasn’t what he thought it was.

               The door shut behind him with a click, and Sebastian was extremely conscious of the fact that it didn’t lock.  Moriarty could enter at any moment he pleased. Despite the gun Sebastian always kept hidden in the third drawer down to the left of the sink, he felt exposed and, for the first time in a long time, he admitted to himself that he was afraid. Suddenly, dying didn’t feel like it didn’t matter anymore. It was a very real and scary thing and he’d overreacted to a stupid breakup and now was going to _die_ at the hands of the _worst_ , most sadistic criminal mastermind known to man. Who was, on top of everything, gay and pissed off. This was a recipe for disaster.

               But what choice did he have? This silence was crushing and terrifying and Sebastian felt so weak he wasn’t sure he could win in a gunfight with Moriarty right now. He had to go through with this. Maybe if Jim did end up joining him in the shower Sebastian could get lucky and kill him while he was vulnerable…

               Suddenly, the sniper couldn’t keep control anymore. He rushed to the shower, hitting his knees on the cold tile next to it as he emptied his stomach. Once all he could do was dry heave and choke, he reached to the side without straightening up and turned the water on, letting the cold wash over him and drown out his problems, which suddenly seemed much more real than they had the day before.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian emerged from the bathroom still with a headache, but at least with his stomach a bit more settled and his fears unconfirmed. However, he made his way back to the main room with hesitant steps, apprehensive of Jim’s motive for all this, and still slightly spooked despite the handgun now concealed beneath his clothing. If this wasn’t leading up to a rape, what kind of torture _did_ he have in mind? Perhaps the criminal was trying to lure him into a false sense of security before he unleashed hell.  

               Whatever. Sebastian was prepared and as much as he hated life, he wasn’t ready to die just yet. Not without a fight.

               Jim was texting when the sniper saw him, sitting on a barstool by the kitchen counter and looking bored out of his mind. Without looking up from his phone, he delivered a single command that was both calculated and nonchalant.

               “Sit.”

               Sebastian’s brow furrowed, his feet remaining planted, and Moriarty continued to text, apparently oblivious.

               There was a moment of silence in which the sniper debated how likely it was that he could succeed in killing his boss right then and there, but before his fingers could so much as twitch towards his firearm, Jim spoke.

               “Do you know what I said to Sherlock, the first time we met?”

               Sebastian was caught off guard by the conversational tone, not to mention the strange choice of topic, “…No, Boss.”

               “I said,” Jim’s eyes remained fixed on whatever he was typing, his fingers a blur as they danced across his phone’s screen, “Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket,” he set down the device, meeting Sebastian’s gaze, “or are you just pleased to see me?”

               The sniper licked his lips, furious at his hands for shaking as he drew the weapon. He’d _never_ been this unsteady in the Army.

               “With all due respect, Boss,” his voice trembled just as much as his hands, “I’m never happy to see you.”

               Moriarty didn’t seem to view Sebastian as any kind of threat, and for some _stupid_ reason, it made the sniper want to cry.

               “Sebastian,” his voice was unbelievably, infuriatingly gentle, “put the gun down.”

               That did it. Without warning, the sniper tossed the weapon to the side, knocking over something glass that he marched past as he took a step forward.

               “Why don’t you just kill me?” he hollered, years of undealt with frustration finally breaking free, “Huh? Why don’t you just _fucking_ kill me? I’m useless to you! I’m stupid, you’ve said it yourself! Are you that much of a fucking fag that you can’t even kill a single dumb kid?”

               There was a beat of silence. Jim’s face was so blank that Sebastian wanted to rearrange it.

               “Are you finished?” he asked quietly.

               “ _No!_ ” to Sebastian’s horror, tears were brimming in his eyes, but there seemed to be no stopping them now. He spun around so that his back was to Jim, raking his hands through his hair, “I’m not finished! Well, actually,” a hysterical, almost Moriarty-esque, half laugh escaped him, “I sorta am, because you’re going to kill me, or rape me, or torture me after this, and I won’t be able to do anything about it, Jim, because _I am nothing.”_

The sniper heaved a breath, another breathy laugh escaping him, and for a fleeting second, he wondered if this might be how Jim Moriarty had felt before he’d gone completely batshit crazy.

               “I dropped out of high school, because I was too stupid to finish, and I was too fucking retarded even for the tutors my parents tried to give me! None of my family ever cared about me, all my parents cared about was _‘family time’_ and _‘go spend time with your sister’_. What the fuck about me?”

               Sebastian punctuated his sentence by hurling an empty bottle at the wall, where it shattered. He could have sworn Jim flinched.

               “So what did I do, like the smart fuck I was? I _left_. I left and discovered my true calling: killing people!” Sebastian laughed caustically at his own naivety, “So I joined the fucking Army thinking, ‘this will show _all of them_ ’. And you know what happened next?”

               He turned on Jim, who now watched him with unreadable eyes.

               “I _fucked that up, too,_ ” Sebastian’s voice dropped down to a hoarse whisper, some of the adrenaline from his initial outburst wearing off and allowing his headache to return, “I fucked that up and fucking killed someone, so I decided to make a career out of it, because I had nothing else I could do. And for a while it was easy but I can’t even do this anymore because I don’t know how much more I can take of thinking about how scared girl you buried was or how scared Molly looked when she found out what I was and I’m so tired of being alone and I don’t know where to go anymore because if I’m not suited for normal life or this life then what…what…?”

               A sob wrenched its way free of Sebastian’s throat, and before he could stop himself he was crying. Crying like he hadn’t since he was a little boy. In front of the most dangerous criminal on the planet. He almost wished Jim would kill him now. After letting everything out, he really didn’t have any reason to continue living anymore. His burden was gone—now he just felt hollow. But the criminal continued to let him sob, and finally, after what must have been _hours_ , he sighed.

               “Please don’t do that.”

               Sebastian blinked away a few tears to see Jim watching him with an expression that was both pitying and pleading.

               He sniffed, “What?”

               “I said,” Jim drew out a handkerchief from the inside of his suit for Sebastian to use, and the sniper quickly shook his head, not wanting to seem any weaker than he already did. Moriarty rolled his eyes, apparently reading his thoughts, and pushed the fabric into Sebastian’s hand, regardless.

               “Don’t worry,” Jim added sarcastically, “You won’t catch AIDS from it.”

               For some reason, the statement made Sebastian feel a twinge of embarrassment.

               “I’ll ask you one more time,” the criminal drawled, nodding towards the couch, “Sit.”

               Head pounding with his rapid pulse, Sebastian complied, covering his face with his hands. He felt Jim’s eyes on him. There was a long silence.

               “You don’t have any idea how the other side feels, do you?”

               Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, sitting up, but the look on Jim’s face stopped him.

               “You truly,” the criminal cocked his head to the side, “haven’t the faintest clue.”

               After a moment, Sebastian decided it was safe to speak, “What do you…?”

               “I _mean_ ,” Jim filled in the missing word, “You haven’t the faintest clue how _privileged_ you were, and still are.”

               “ _Privileged?_ Did you not hear a word I fucking s-?”

               Jim cut him off, leaving Sebastian gaping and offended, “I heard exactly what you said.”

               “Then please!” the sniper grinned emptily, “Explain to me how _lucky_ I am to be a useless piece of-”

               “Shut up!” for the first time, Jim raised his voice, and Sebastian’s confidence melted off of him like water.

               “Excuse me for not having any _pity_ ,” the criminal sneered the word, “left for those who were given a loving family, and still weren’t satisfied.”

               Sebastian raised a finger, “But they-”

               “Forgive me for not comprehending how ‘too much family time’ is a legitimate reason for running away. And they got you _tutors,_ too?”

               “They thought I was stupid-”

               “Did they tell you that?” Jim challenged, “Did they ever raise a hand to you, or neglect you, or mistreat you in _any way_?”

               Sebastian licked his lips, “…but-”

               “No, Moran, I need for you to understand how it feels for the rest of us, and I need to make something very clear to you. You are a _spoiled brat._ I can tell from your petty complaints about your family, and I can tell from the derogatory terms you drop at the end of every sentence. Let me tell you a story about how it feels for the rest of us. For the _real outcasts.”_

               Sebastian’s pulse hammered in his ears.

               “Please ask yourself, Sebastian, if you have ever been bullied. Or perhaps if you have _been_ a bully, in more situations than not. In addition, ask yourself if you have the faintest _clue_ how it may feel for someone to have no one, and I mean _no one_ , who they can ask for help in that situation. Ask yourself if it might hurt more to be asked to spend time with your sister, or to be tormented and punished for nothing other than existing, every day for _years._ Ask yourself how it might feel when, rather than being behind in your studies with expensive tutors at your disposal, you have excelled past even the teachers. Bored out of your mind and accused at every turn of being a show off, of being an extra nuisance. Imagine having not even _adults_ you can turn to when you haven’t a single peer on your side. Imagine _that_ isolation.”

               Sebastian swallowed.

               “And, on top of that, imagine your parents, who initially cared for you, slowly distancing themselves, assuming you don’t need them anymore, that they shouldn’t even try. Imagine them pretending to believe your excuses as to why you’re getting broken ribs from school, or why you’re missing half the skin on your forearms.”

               Jim paused, looking more unstable than Sebastian had ever seen him, and clenched and unclenched a fist.

               “Imagine that.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Jim looked away, and Sebastian watched his chest rise and fall for a few minutes, waiting for him to calm down. Finally, once both of their breaths had slowed, the sniper summoned up all his nerve and broke the silence.

               “Is this a…personal experience?” he asked hesitantly.

               The criminal scoffed, making Sebastian expect a sarcastic response, “Don’t worry. He’s dead now.”

               Sebastian paled, suddenly unsure if Moriarty was truly joking, “You don’t mean-?”

               “Yes. And only one person _ever_ suspected a thing.”

               _Holy shit. Jim Moriarty killed his bully._

               “Who was the one person?” Sebastian inquired.

               The sniper balked when Jim wiggled his Marked hand at him.

               “No way…” he marveled. That was actually kind of romantic.

               After a moment, Jim sighed, letting his shoulders fall and leaning forward to study Sebastian. It has hard not to shiver under the sudden coolness of his gaze. The sniper dimly wondered if Sherlock was talking to Jim right now.

               “I shouldn’t have told you that,” the criminal finally said.

               Sebastian crossed and uncrossed his arms, unsure where he was supposed to look or what he was supposed to say, as was so often the case with Moriarty. He felt like a child again; a clueless, naïve child in way over his head.

               Maybe that had always been the case. But strangely, having his worse insecurities confirmed felt more calming than pondering them.

               “You can speak, Sebastian.” Jim’s voice was gentler this time.

               The sniper swallowed again, his throat gone dry with nerves, “I mean, that’s sad that that happened to you and everything, but what about m-?”

               “Not everything,” Jim, infuriatingly, interrupted again, “is about you, Sebastian.”

               “But not everything is about you and your ‘ _hardship’_ ,” Sebastian risked putting air quotes around the word, “Like that sucks you were lonely, but being too smart is a pretty shitty excuse for a problem, if you ask me.”

               Jim’s voice trembled dangerously, “Moran, you had loving peers and a loving family. Which you left because they weren’t _enough_ for you,” he practically spat the word.

               “You didn’t have to be smart and gay!” Sebastian exclaimed, indignant, “Like you’re just trying to rock the boat-”

               “You didn’t have to be stupid,” Jim countered.

               Sebastian gaped, frozen.

               “And, for the record, I’m not gay.”

               “But you’re literally dating Sherlock!”

               Jim slapped a palm down on the table, “Why do you always have to be so difficult?”

               “I’m not trying to be difficult!” Sebastian stood up.

               “No,” the criminal acknowledged, “But you’re _certainly_ not trying to understand, either. Perhaps the reason you’ve had so much difficulty in school is because you refuse to listen to anyone but yourself. Obviously you never listened to anything your family really said.”

               Sebastian, for the first time, felt a twinge of doubt.

               “You’re a mass murderer,” he finally muttered, eyes on the floor, “Why should I trust anything you say?”

               “You’re a less successful mass murderer, and a bigot,” Jim argued, “Why should your judgement be worth more than mine?”

               The room grew very quiet.

               “Moran, listen to me,” Jim looked like it physically pained him to change his frustration into compassion, “You’ve been raised to think that you are beyond doing any wrong. _Please_ tell me you can see what might be a problem with that mindset.”

               Sebastian averted his eyes, as though it would prevent something very true and very terrible from silently clicking into place.

               _Fuck._ Now that he thought about it, Jim sort of had a point. In fact, the principle seemed to apply so widely that Sebastian almost thought it ludicrous that he’d never noticed it before.

               Of course he did.

               Jim sighed, “You are not to discuss my relationship with Sherlock in a professional setting anymore.”

               Sebastian, albeit painfully, forced himself to look at his boss. The criminal’s gaze had gone frighteningly hard.

               “And,” Jim continued, “if you can’t leave this,” he flicked a finger against what was left of his drink, making the glass ring quietly, “expect to leave your job. I expect for your assignments to be completed in a timely manner.”

               After a moment of heavy silence, the sniper forced himself to swallow what was left of his pride and nod.

               “Good.”

               They remained that way for a bit, in a strange companionship, and Sebastian observed, for the first time, that Jim actually looked a little tired.

               “Boss-”

               To his surprise, Jim raised a hand to halt him, “Jim”.

               Sebastian frowned, confused at the familiarity implied in the request, but didn’t protest.

               “Why are you doing this? Why not kill me like Ma-I mean, Jo.”

               Jim sighed, pity written in his every feature, “You’re a child, Sebastian.”

               “But she was just some girl who-”

               “Seb, we’ve all done things we… _perhaps_ shouldn’t have. But it’s not something that can be undone and I’m not going to feel guilty for it. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time. And it isn’t your place to question what I do.”

               This time, when the sniper protested, he felt a strange security in his argument that he hadn’t before, “But you just said not to accept things without thinking-”

               “I _know_ ,” a smile twitched at Jim’s lips, and he stared off into space for a moment, probably talking to his boyfriend, “But I’m always right.”

               Sebastian almost wanted to pinch himself. Had Jim Moriarty just made a _joke_? He was almost afraid to laugh. He allowed himself a small grin instead.

               “Oh, and,” Jim added, straightening up, “I expect you to patch things up with Molly, as well.”

               When the sniper raised an eyebrow, he clarified.

               “Before I asked her to drag you back here, she seemed a bit sad. I’m certain she misses having someone to discuss Glee with.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               In a lavish office with the blinds drawn, two figures converse quietly over untouched drinks.

               “I hope you will consider who exactly it is you are planning to expose,” one drawls, feigning nonchalance, “You _do_ know he controls a vast majority of the world’s organized crime.”

               “And yet,” the other’s lack of concern, in contrast, is legitimate, “he still hasn’t noticed me. Why might that be?”      

               “Perhaps he does not trouble himself with petty journalists such as yourself,” the first man snaps, glaring down a hawkish nose at his companion, still unwilling to admit to himself that the man across from him makes him a bit nervous.

               “Ah, but you do, and that is why, Mr. Holmes,” the man grins, looking like some kind of terrible shark, “your secrets are safe with me. Provided, of course, you will get me my story. I trust your confidant is reliable.”

               “I will give you everything I can afford,” Mycroft’s temple pounds, and he takes a sip of his drink, which doesn’t help one bit.

               “Oh no, Mr. Holmes,” the suited man stands, “You will give me everything, or you will lose everything.”

               “Are you threatening me?” Mycroft’s laugh is devoid of humor.

               “I prefer to call it,” the words are said with an awful smirk, “motivation.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Reviews are much appreciated!! Looks like Jim is working on his human connections a little bit. Seb will hopefully start to learn more about not being…well, an insufferable fuckboy. And who is this mysterious man talking to Mycroft?


	34. Antimatter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for torture and Sebastian still struggling to comprehend how you can be in a same sex relationship without being gay (sigh.)

               Mary always wondered, at times like this, whether her pain was alleviated or enhanced by screaming.

               It was a relief to let the sound tear from her throat; surely, if she attempted to contain it, the mere volume of feeling it contained would cause her to burst. However, every howl also echoed off the walls straight back to her ears, preventing her from distancing herself and tinting her entire world with pain.

               She’d rarely had to go through torture, under Moriarty’s employ, but things had to go wrong at some point. That was the beauty, though, of having such job security. If the criminal had anything going for him, it was that. She’d always gotten out of the situation fairly quickly, before any _real_ pain could start.

               Now this…this was something different.

               “You know you’re only making this more difficult for yourself,” Mycroft drawled, as though he was only half paying attention to the blood soaked, bruised woman in front of him.

               Mary panted, her torturer having taken a step back for the moment, to allow for conversation, “Please. I’ve told you everything I know!”

               “Once more, if you will.”

               A knife twisted under her skin. Not deep enough to do any permanent damage, mind, provided that this didn’t continue for much longer.

               “ _Please!_ ”

               “I. Need. More,” Mycroft enunciated each word like it was its own sentence, and after a moment, he adds, “Ms. Montagne.”

               Mary winced at her former name, a subtle reminder of what Mycroft had done for her. As _if_ she owed him anymore. She should have known that there was a greater cost to her freedom than he’d mentioned.

               “I can’t give anything else!” she pleaded. It was the truth. Even under Moriarty’s command, hell, even as his first in command, she’d been kept in the dark about most things. She’d known his face, while most other employees knew him only through whispers or screen names, but that was about it. Everything else was little mistakes here and there. Miniscule puzzle pieces she doubted even Holmes could fit together into something useful.

               She’d given them, nonetheless. And now he still wanted more.

               “Yes, you can,” there was something in his gaze that, had she not known better, would have registered as pleading, “Details. His personal life. How we can expose him. Take down the web. He has already made a big mistake in showing his face to the public at all. Scotland Yard’s patch up is fragile, and it can be turned around if-”

               “Who is ‘we?’”

               The only sound in the room was Mary’s pulse in her ears, thrumming like a war drum. At the single word, Mycroft’s eyes suddenly went very, very cold.

               “There is no ‘we.’”

               “You do realize you’re hurting your _brother_ , right? Why do you want to undo all the Yard has done for Sherlock? You’re just as twisted as Moriarty!”

               Mycroft opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t very well argue that he was any better than the man who’d buried Mary alive when he was the one deciding what new form of agony she would experience next. At the mention of Sherlock, his expression twisted in pain. Ha! As if he knew pain.

               Suddenly, something seemed to click into place.

               “This is some kind of government _merde_ , isn’t it?” Mary slipped into French, knowing that Holmes would understand no matter what tongue she cursed in, “You don’t really care about Moriarty. You’re only doing this because of some under the table deal so no one finds out you spent taxpayer money on expensive _cognac!_ ”

               Mycroft actually _flinched_ and Mary wondered how accurate her assumption actually had been. Her triumph was short lived, however, because when Holmes approached her, the look in his eyes sharp enough to cut skin as well as any knife could.

               “You do not,” he enunciated quietly, with the sort of deadly calm that only showed itself hand in hand with fury, “understand what is at stake here.”

               “Your job!” Mary hollered, the words hurting her throat in a strangely satisfying way. Maybe if they hurt her enough, they could hurt Mycroft, too. “This is for your _damn_ job. You’re trying to catch Moriarty and ruin your brother for your damn job! I thought you’d rescued me from hell, but it looks like I’m back in-”

               Holmes nodded at her torturer, and for a few minutes there was nothing but screaming and blood. It clung to Mary’s skin, warm and sticky.

               “I am doing none of those things,” Mycroft’s voice wavered dangerously, “What I _am_ doing is waiting for you to tell me what you know about James Moriarty. You can go home to John, afterwards.”

               Mary spit in his face.

(o0o0o0o0)

               The hour was ungodly by the time Mary returned to Baker Street, but that didn’t stop John from rushing to meet her as soon as she got back.

               “Christ,” he breathed, hands steady as he checked her visible injuries, which had been treated post interrogation, but still burned. She wished she could resist the urge to flinch at every touch. Every time she did, it was like John felt her pain.             

               “John-” Mary’s voice cracked, and she blinked back tears, “We—Sherlock…”

               “He’s upstairs with…” John hesitated, afraid that the name would only cause her more pain. Instead, the very thought of it made her angry. She led John down the hall and into her flat, letting a single sob escape her as they walked. Maybe if she cried while they walked, he wouldn’t ask too many questions.          

               God knew it wouldn’t do anything. As easy of a guess as it was to make, it did nothing. Talking did nothing. Mycroft had too much power. He could do whatever he liked to her, and there was _nothing_ they could do about it. The only person who had the means to do anything to fix this was the one who’d started the whole thing.

               “He won’t hurt-” John started, reaching a gentle hand out to her. She looked to him with eyes feral.

               “This is _all his fault,_ ” Mary snarled, still unsure if she was more angry or despondent, crying as John watched her with wide eyes, “He wouldn’t let me leave! He wouldn’t let me leave, and because I left, because he didn’t _own me_ , he tried to kill me. If I’d never taken that _stupid_ job, this never would have happened.”

               “Shh…okay,” John sat next to her, continuing to hush as he pulled her close, “You’re fine. He can’t hurt you. I won’t let him. Probably weighs half of what I do, anyway.”

               Mary didn’t laugh at the joke.

               “I killed for him,” she whispered, “I killed people for that monster, and now I’m being tortured because I didn’t stick around long enough to learn more. I’m being punished for escaping by the people who helped me escape.”

               Something hardened in John’s gaze, “This wasn’t…?”

               Mary blinked back tears as realization hit the doctor. She wished she could enjoy the protectiveness in his gaze, the soldier coming to the surface again, but it was hard to appreciate it when it was so useless.

               “Mycroft,” John cursed, “That _bastard_! That _fucking-”_

“It won’t do anything!” tears were now freely moving down Mary’s cheeks, “He has too much power. I’ve thought it all through, and there is only one person who can help us. Sherlock’s reputation is too fragile, and the Yard is already on thin ice with the public for siding with him. Even if Mycroft wanted to help, he couldn’t. His hands are tied.”

               “So what?” Mary winced as John’s anger directed towards her, “We go to _Jim_ for help?”

               “He’d kill me,” Mary shook her head, “And even if he wouldn’t, I would never ask that _bastard_ for help after all he’s done.”

               John stared. She was right. He seemed to physically deflate, his gaze reverting from warrior back to tired veteran.

               “What can we do, then?” he wondered aloud, then turned to Mary, “What can _I_ do?”

               Mary winced, pulling him closer so she wouldn’t see the determination in his eyes; John who so wanted to save everybody but himself. She wished she had that problem. The more she thought about it, Mary realized she was the opposite. All she did was save herself, and after all this time, a lack of friends to fall back on was catching up to her.

               “Just be there,” she murmured into his sweater, unable to really feel guilty over staining it with tears, “Doctor Watson.”

               John kissed her forehead, his thump stroking her hair so gently, it was as though he feared she would break.

               After her heartbeat had calmed a bit, Mary spoke.

               “Is…he going to be here a lot, then?” she asked timidly. It was a very strange feeling, having your almost-murderer and former crime boss just upstairs from you.

               John sighed deeply, “God, I hope not. I’m always jumping whenever I round a corner and he’s there. Sometimes I wonder if it is all some elaborate plot.”

               “Life is never that simple,” Mary breathed, “Not even life and death. Look at me,” she tried to force a smile into her voice, and failed. John pulled back to look at her.

               “Will he hold a grudge against you forever? He’s seemed a bit less…edgy, now that he’s got Sherlock.”

               “It doesn’t matter,” Mary asserted. This was something she would not compromise on. “I don’t care how kind he is to Sherlock. John I’m…I can’t risk it. I’m sorry. But it’s a lifetime of cruelty versus a few weeks of kindness.”

               John nodded solemnly, sighing again, “You’re right. You know I’d never endanger your safety like that, right?”

               “I don’t, John.”

               The doctor looked offended, and Mary resisted the urge to start an argument. She was already so, so tired.

               “I don’t,” she continued, “I’ve only lost people my entire life. Through betrayal or death or anything else. And as much as I love you, I can’t just give my everything to a man I’ve only known a few weeks.”

               John’s jaw had gone slack, and he was staring at her reverently. Mary cocked her head to the side.

               “You love me?” the doctor inquired softly, and Mary recalled what she’d just let slip.

               She blinked back another tear, resting her hand on John’s cheek.

               “Yes, John. I love you.”

(o0o0o0o0)

              

               James yawned, finally succumbing to exhaustion and resting his head on the detective’s bony shoulder. Sherlock turned his head as best he could.

               “You cannot possibly be comfortable,” he observed. The criminal didn’t move, his eyelids already drooping.

               “I…” he yawned, copying Sherlock, “don’t care. Soon as I’m asleep, it’s your problem.”

               The detective fought back another yawn, “Not for long. You’re already…” he surrendered, “…getting to me.” It was getting harder and harder to resist the allure of sleep the Bond was surrounding him with.

               “Hm…” James hummed, “You poor poor thing.” It would have been easier to speak through the Bond, but Sherlock _did_ enjoy hearing the criminal’s voice, especially when it had gone throaty and hoarse with exhaustion.

               The detective sighed deeply, quite tempted to go to sleep right then and there with James, sat on the floor, backs to his chair, the television glowing in front of them and playing some colorful program Molly had showed Jim from IT, some time ago. They were sitting in a makeshift nest of pillows under a blanket from Sherlock’s bed, so despite being on the floor, it wasn’t _terribly_ uncomfortable…

               “Shall we move?” Sherlock sounded as though he would rather set himself on fire. The bedroom seemed _miles_ away…

               _Will you carry me?_ James flirted sleepily.

_Never._

               Sherlock was just starting to close his eyes, twisted with the criminal in a position their necks would hate them for in the morning, when John marched through the front door, casting a dirty look in their direction.

               The detective was briefly grateful that James hadn’t seen it, before the criminal’s senses snapped to attention, his mind suddenly wide awake. He raised his head to look at John, who studied them both with disdain for a moment before shaking his head and stomping upstairs.          

               _What’s his problem?_ James rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder once more, tired again.

               The detective was quite genuinely curious about that himself. He’d thought John had gotten over his issues with James.

               _No idea…probably girlfriend troubles._

_Does he have a girlfriend?_

_Just downstairs._

James paused, _Why would girlfriend problems make him pissed at us? Did you do something?_

 _No idea,_ Sherlock confessed, _I haven’t been introduced._

The criminal was still pondering the subject, despite his sleepiness.

               _Most likely it’s nothing,_ the detective added, to ease any tension he’d created. He hated to admit it, but sometimes, _not_ having to think and analyze constantly was pleasant. With James, of course. To try and steer them in that direction, he pulled the criminal closer, kissing the top of his head.

               _Does John usually introduce you?_ James persisted, to Sherlock’s frustration. The detective huffed.

               _Yes, I suppose._

There was a very eerie silence, filled only with the lyrics to a gauzy performance of _I Will Survive_ by an all female glee club, emanating from the telly.

               “ _Oh as long as I know how to love, I know I’ll stay alive.”_

Sherlock lowered his face to the top of the criminal’s head once more, his voice muffled by James’s hair.

               “This is the bloody strangest program I’ve ever seen.”

(o0o0o0o0)

 

               Sebastian woke up feeling more motivated than he had in a very long time.

               Obviously, when he’d first landed a job with Jim, he’d been eager to please, but, looking back, that hadn’t really been a _good_ kind of excitement. He’d only thought he was happy because he was doing what he felt he ought to. He’d thought crime was the most important thing in his life.

               Now that Sebastian thought about it, he wasn’t sure what that was anymore. He’d liked the Army, and he felt good when he completed a job for his boss, but there still was something missing.              

               The thought of getting Molly back made him feel a little better. And, he hated to admit it, but his new (friendship?) with Jim helped, as well.

               It had been strange, at first, talking to the criminal like he was, well…a _person,_ but as time went on, it grew easier and easier to believe that the rumors weren’t true, that Jim had even helped create some of them.

               Jim was a little more withdrawn than most people Sebastian had made friends with, back when he’d _had_ friends, and intellectually he was on another fucking _planet_ , and then there was the whole gay (or, as Jim continued to insist, to the sniper’s bafflement, ‘not gay’) thing…

               But it was fine. Like, genuinely fine. It actually confused Sebastian how _fine_ it actually was. Looking back, he felt a little bit sick at how stupid he’d been about the whole thing, but Jim, _shockingly_ , seemed to have taken a resigned if not tolerant approach to the situation. He somehow seemed to know that Sebastian was working through it, and had stepped back from bringing up the topic any further, at least for now.

               Probably, Sebastian theorized, he didn’t really deserve that courtesy, but it was appreciated nonetheless.

               So it was that the sniper found himself conversing, a few days prior, with Jim over the phone. The criminal had finally moved flats for the sake of anti-Mycroft security, and had recently changed cell phone numbers once more. Seb had decided to take advantage of the call needed to test the new device to bring up the Molly issue with Jim. He’d been trying to figure out what to say, but it was important that he left nothing out of his speech.

               _“Seb, you’re missing the point,”_ Jim had made the sniper’s blood freeze over with that line. Fuck. What had he missed this time?

               _“Be honest with her, for Christ’s sake. She was angry because you lied to her.”_

“But what about the whole ‘sniper for hire’ thing-?”

               _“Trust me,”_ Jim had insisted, _“She doesn’t care about that danger. Just look at how infatuated she is with Sherlock.”_

“Hm,” Sebastian had huffed, ready to hang up, “Alright, thanks for the-”

               _“Oh, and Sebastian?”_ Jim had added, making the sniper apprehensive once more.

               “Yeah?”

               _“What will you do if she rejects you? Assuming you are offering her a romance.”_

Sebastian was offering a romance. It was why he’d bought the largest bunch of roses he could find, fire engine red, to bring with his speech. He’d had to think about his answer for a while. Honestly, he probably would’ve been indignant, and a little bit pissed, but something had told him that that wasn’t the right answer.

               _“That’s what I thought,”_ Jim must have read his mind, _“So here is what I have for you: she is under no obligation to accept your offer. If you really like her, and I know you do, you’ll be just as happy with a friendship.”_

“But-”

               _“Tell me you aren’t so desperate that you think every possible romantic partner you meet should be your last.”_

“That’s easy for you to say!” Sebastian had protested, “You’re _Bonded!_ You’re set for life!”

               Jim had paused for a moment, and the sniper was surprised to find that the silence hurt his heart a little bit. Probably the last thing Jim wanted to hear was a reminder of how much Mycroft wanted to take Sherlock away from him.

               _“I’m sure you’re right about that.”_

               Sebastian had proceeded to inquire what color flowers he should bring to Molly. Jim had said he should bring daisies, but this was a romance first and foremost, so roses it was.

               So now, here he stood outside Molly’s door, showered and dressed and ready to give the apology of a lifetime, the scent of roses tickling his nose as he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Molly didn’t look in the slightest surprised to see him, but if she’d known he was coming, she hadn’t bothered to dress up. Her hair was tied up in a messy ponytail, with a few wisps that worked their way free framing her face. She wore a colorful sweater that seemed to make her eyes sparkle intelligently at him.

               And just like that, Sebastian forgot everything he’d planned to say.

               _Fuck, fuck, FUCK._

He’d never really thought of Molly as smart—not when there were people like Jim and Sherlock around—but now that he thought about it, the fact that she knew Sherlock at all must be a testament to her IQ. Holmes didn’t seem like he was very tolerant of people who couldn’t recite at _least_ half the periodic table from memory.

               Dammit. What was it Jim had said he’d done wrong? He’d lied, but there was more to it than that…

 _“You are a_ _spoiled brat._ _I can tell from your petty complaints about your family, and I can tell from the derogatory terms you drop at the end of every sentence,”_ Jim’s voice echoed in his mind.

               Oh. Right. That.

               Sebastian took a deep breath, and started just as Molly opened her mouth to speak.

               “Just,” he looked her straight in the eye, “Please listen for a minute. I…” Sebastian thought for a moment, looking down, “I don’t deserve to have the first word, but I need to just get this all out, because I’ve been thinking about it and if I wait then I’m worried I won’t be able to speak.”

               A part of him hated how weak the words sounded, but a much larger park was left to puzzle at the fact that Molly, because of them, decided to let him go on.

               “I…” for a brief, terrifying moment, Sebastian’s mind was blank. He raised his head looked Molly in the eyes again.

               He remembered Jim’s words once more, “ _Be honest with her, for Christ’s sake,”_ and just like that, it all started to come out.

               “I’ve been, really, really shitty. Not just to you. I’ve been shitty to everyone. I’ve been ungrateful towards my family. I’ve been letting myself slip. Hell, I’ve probably been the worst employee Jim Moriarty has ever had the burden of dealing with.”

               She watched him coolly.

               “But,” Sebastian took a breath, “I’m gonna apologize to you first, Molly. Because you’re the only person that hasn’t been terrible to me right back. Not that,” he held up a hand, “I didn’t deserve everything I got.

               “I’ve been bigoted as _fuck_ , Molly, and you deserve better than that. And up until this point,” he shook his head, “I thought that I was right because no one else challenged me on it. But I really just wasn’t listening. Just like I wasn’t listening when my family told me they loved me.”

               The sniper blushed, “But uh, this isn’t about that. The bottom line is that I’m really sorry you had to deal with that. Because now that my head’s out of my ass, I can hear what people are saying. That I’m wrong about things. And it’s only just occurred to me that maybe being wrong about that stuff doesn’t mean I’m stupid or hopeless…not any more than my eternal D plus in English. It just means I was fucking wrong, and the only thing that would make me stupid is if I wasn’t trying to change it.

              “Which I wasn’t. I’m sorry for being a bigot, Molly. It wasn’t classy, and it wasn’t polite, especially since you have friends who are g—I mean friends who aren’t…” Sebastian paused to think, “…completely straight.”

               A small smile quirked Molly’s lips upwards, which was good, because at this point, Sebastian was just saying whatever his gut told him to. Surprisingly, every word seemed to feel more put together, more in place than his whole speech ever had.

               “And I’m sorry, moreover,” he continued, “for not telling you who I was and who I worked for. I underestimated you, Molly.

               “I never would have dreamed that someone as loving and sweet and _happy_ as you could ever have had experience in the past with my whole…” Sebastian gestured vaguely, “with organized crime. I never could have imagined you’d been hurt by it or didn’t want to deal with it, because whenever I’ve been hurt, I’ve been a child about it.

               “I don’t understand your strength. I thought that I was being strong, being an assassin. I thought I was hot fucking shit, but I think…” Sebastian’s voice was shaking, and had gone very small, “I think I’m a coward, Molly.

               “I’m a coward, and a bigot…maybe in remission. And I never graduated high school. And I’m a liar. And I’m selfish and kind of a…Jim thinks I’m a baby about some things. And I sort of tossed it aside but standing in front of you…I think he’s right. I think I act like a child about a lot of things.”

                Something silently clicked into place, and it showed in the sniper’s tone of voice.

               “And I brought you these roses because I wanted you to be my girlfriend, but I…I don’t really think that’s the best. I think you deserve an adult and I’m…I need to grow up. So here,” he trust the bouquet towards her, “These are for an apology. I’m sorry, Molly. For everything.”

               Slowly, she lifted the roses out of his hands. Sebastian folded his hands in front of himself, no longer having a crutch to hold onto, and was about to turn away when Molly spoke.

               “Did you mean the things you said?” she asked suddenly, “I mean…the not so nice things. When you said them. I mean the ignorant things.”

               Sebastian pondered this a moment.

               “ _Just be honest with her.”_

               “I think I meant them,” he admitted shamefully, “But I’m trying to stop and I’m trying to understand but it’s all so new and I’ve been ignoring it for so long-”

               She stared.

               “And that’s why I can’t be with someone like you. Because I think…” he sighed tiredly, “I think it’s not fair for it to be your job to teach me.”

               Molly’s lips started to form a shy smile once more, “I think that’s wise of you, Sebastian,” she paused, “But I’ve been doing some thinking, though, about Jim and Sherlock, and while I’m… getting used to the idea, I don’t think I can completely condemn you for your profession when I’m pretty much over Jim’s.”

               A startled laugh escaped Sebastian, “What?”

               “I know it’s bad,” Molly chortled, “But as much as he acts like it, Sherlock isn’t a _totally_ bad person. So I figure that if he’s showing _this much_ affection towards his former nemesis…when he normally barely shows any towards his _best friend…_ I think there must be something he sees in Jim that we can’t. Maybe he can bring it out.”

               “You seem to think this will all work out for the best,” Sebastian mused, and Molly raised her eyebrows.

               “After the apology you just gave me, anything is possible. Not that,” she hurriedly added, “I didn’t take it seriously. But you know a lot of men could never have been so humble.”

                Sebastian balked. He’d never considered that being humble made a person more of a man.

                “Would you like to come in and watch Glee?” Molly offered, before going into a mini panic, “On separate sides of the sofa! Not together!”

                The sniper grinned, so widely it felt like he was stretching muscles after a long sleep.

                “Glee sounds _fantastic_.”

                 She stood aside to let him pass, letting the door close behind them.

                “You know, this doesn’t mean I condone murder.”

                “Says the lady who works in a morgue.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               “I can scarcely believe what I’m hearing, Mr. Holmes.”

               Mycroft was starting to have a Pavlovian response of nausea whenever he heard that cooing voice. This had gone far enough, past even the boundaries of what he was willing to do. Especially when it was obvious Mary knew nothing more on Moriarty.

               “And I can scarcely believe,” he volleyed, “Your struggle to understand these rather simple circumstances. She knows nothing more, therefore I can give you nothing more.”

               His suited companion stepped out from the shadows, and Mycroft was faced with the chilling gaze of Charles Augustus Magnussen, amplified from behind a pair of spectacles that the elder Holmes wanted to snap in half.

               He’d never been one for violent confrontations, but perhaps all these isolated meetings were starting to get to him. Today, the two stood a few meters apart in yet another abandoned warehouse, where they could safely discuss such morally bereft matters as these.

               Of course this had fallen on Mycroft to take care of. When you worked with a league of old bumbling fools who would rather sit around and drink brandy than actually _run_ a government, things rarely didn’t. Even when, in cases such as this, _all of their jobs were at stake._

               Public favor was a fragile thing, and Magnussen knew it. He knew that exposing whatever scandals he had intelligence on (most if not all of them) would cause Brits to flock to newsstands like moths to a candle. And, like moths to a candle, they would all get burned if that happened. Mycroft doubted there were many people intelligent enough to recognize that the country was running fine, that the scandals were no longer relevant, that it was in everyone’s best interest to forget and let things quietly disappear.

               Instead, like people do, he knew and Magnussen knew that they would want justice. They wouldn’t rest until people were fired, and unnecessary trouble was caused in the name of running an _honest_ country.

               It had never been honest. And the only thing people would buy more than a confirmation of their worst fears about their government was a story about the most dangerous criminal mastermind on Earth. A terrible price to pay—Mycroft had hated when ‘Holmes’ had become a household name and he certainly wasn’t interested in the extra publicity it would bring them when ‘Moriarty’ became one, too.

               And, as terrible as Jim’s business was, it was a bit too late to start unraveling the web now. Mycroft knew very well that at this point the threads were holding important things in place—to take them apart would likely do more harm than good.

               But he’d initially thought it was better Moriarty than him. Better to prioritize the immediate problem of his job. Now that he couldn’t give Magnussen his story, Mycroft was quietly relieved that whatever would have come crashing down with Moriarty could stay standing another day.

               Not to mention the fact that he did seem to be quite good for Sherlock. Mycroft had seen them sneaking around London together. Rolled his eyes at Jim’s increasingly careless hacking of surveillance cameras.

               That was how he’d known, actually. The bloody cameras.

               Moriarty and Sherlock were…quite a pair. But comparing the threat their relationship presented with the one Magnussen did was like comparing a goldfish to a great white. Truly, he wished them the best, but at the moment, he needed to pay attention to other things. The inevitable wedding bells could wait.

               “Do you know, I wonder,” CAM cocked his head to the side like a wiry old bird, “Exactly how much damage I am capable of causing to you? To the British government as a whole?”

               “I’m surprised you haven’t considered the idea that I just wave my magic umbrella,” Mycroft twirled the object in question, “And whisk you off to prison. You know better than anyone that the British government isn’t an entirely _honest_ operation.”

               CAM licked his lips, “…I find it fascinating that you prioritize your brother’s affair with a clinically diagnosed psychopath over your own country.”

               Mycroft raised his eyebrows, “Clinically diagnosed? Mr. Moriarty has never--”

               “Well, he loves your brother,” CAM interrupted, making Mycroft’s cheeks flush, “the sociopath, so surely there can’t be much difference.”

               “Why bother with the scandals? Why bother with facts?” Mycroft snapped, “You could print anything without going to all the trouble of accuracy. People will buy anything.”

               CAM grinned wickedly, taking a step towards Holmes, “Ah, but you know what is better than outright lies?”

               Mycroft didn’t answer. He didn’t need to hear Magnussen’s last words to know what he was going to say.

               “Lies rooted in fact. As long as the beginning is true, surely the rest must be. You know how people think. Just look at what happened with your brother.”

               Again, Mycroft didn’t respond. He had a sick feeling as he so often did when he prioritized the wrong things.

               “It’s been lovely doing business, Mr. Holmes, but I must say, our little deal doesn’t seem to be working out. I’ll just leave with my scandals ready for release by Monday. I’ll save you a paper…”

               “Wait,” Mycroft called after CAM’s retreating form. He could swear he saw Magnussen quickly conceal a smirk before turning around to face him.

               “Another offer, perhaps?”

               Hating himself, Mycroft tried to push the thought of Sherlock from his mind, “We’ll get more information. I’ll find out if she has more contacts from her time in the web, threaten to take away her security with us.”

               Magnussen went disturbingly silent, and made his way towards Mycroft until they were mere inches apart.

               “Why, I wonder?” the journalist’s breath was sickeningly sweet, almost like a cough drop, “Haven’t you tried all this before?”

               Mycroft scowled, “The stakes weren’t yet high enough for the…cruelty I’d need to get that out of her.”

               Magnussen’s grin was so far from an expression of joy that it brought disgrace to the very gesture.

               “It sounds like she needs more motivation.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh…this doesn’t sound good. This chapter was mostly housecleaning to set up what’s to come, so it was a little scattered. Reviews are welcome ^_^ This next chapter’s gonna be a rough one.


	35. Mars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten out of ten recommend reading this to this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pUwszL6J81I
> 
> Or chase music of your choosing ^_^

               “It’s actually quite fascinating. I’ve started developing an algorithm to approximate its movements, since I can’t exactly move human space travel forward…”

               Sherlock arched an eyebrow, absently tapping his fingers on the countertop. James conceded with a smirk from where he sat sideways in the detective’s chair, legs draped over one of the arms.

               “Well, not _significantly_ forward.” _Still won’t be fast enough, so it’s not worth the effort. But when you’ve mapped all you can it’s a bit frustrating, doing it over and over._

               James was quite grateful to Sherlock for pushing him back into creating his star charts. It felt good to be doing something organic, for once. To have his creations physically scattered around his flat made him feel a bit more like a real person. But, despite the everlasting expansion of the cosmos, mankind only knew of so many stars, which held the criminal back from mapping out anything new.

Fingers still drumming on the counter, Sherlock fought the urge to start pacing by biting his lip. He should be enjoying this. John wasn’t home at his usual time, and James was in a good mood, looking nothing short of dashing in a sweater that would put the doctor’s collection to shame, his hair free of product and perfect for lacing fingers through.

               The criminal picked up that train of thought shamelessly quickly, a mischievous glimmer emerging in his brown eyes.

               “I like the way you think. Bit risky…we might not have enough time…”

               Sherlock brought his phone to life, wondering if perhaps his eyes were deceiving him. It was three hours after John usually got home. The sky outside seemed a bit darker than usual, knowing that John could be out in it, in trouble.

               He wouldn’t have worried, had John texted him, as usual. John was reliable for mundane, obligatory things like that. Society expects a notification when a change in schedule occurs, especially under cover of night. And the doctor adhered to that expectation _without fail._ Sherlock was always given warning when he decided to go somewhere unexpectedly, at least if it was going to take this long.

               The detective shook James’s lewd train of thought off, giving in and starting to pace. _Not in the mood._

The criminal frowned. _You’re making me nervous._

Sherlock shook his head, “Something’s wrong.”

               James swung his legs around so he was sitting normally before standing, “Sherl, sometimes people are unpredict-”

               “Stop trying to placate me!” the detective snapped, and James shrunk back slightly. Strangely, getting shouted at by Sherlock caught him off guard enough that he was finally able to make sense of the chaos that was Sherlock’s current train of thought, scrambled by hyperactivity.

               _Ah_ , cautiously, James approached Sherlock, who was still stalking around the kitchen. _You think Mycroft would do something like that?_

 _Don’t know,_ the detective’s mind was working a mile a minute, _But he sold me out to you, remember? He’s not above cruelty._

James couldn’t argue with that. Especially given the extremely distinctive fact that the elder Holmes had been trying to ruin their mental capacity in the name of the general public’s safety, it didn’t seem unlikely that he’d attempt to use John as leverage to get what he wanted from his brother. If Sherlock’s life didn’t mean much to him, then Watson meant nothing.

               Then again, this was Sherlock’s…friend. There was a great likelihood that the detective was overreacting due to sentiment. Perhaps Watson was just giving them space. James never had been overly fond of the doctor, and, at the moment, he was a bit more concerned with getting close to Sherlock than with John’s well being. He was probably fine, anyway, and even if he wasn’t, it wasn’t as though the ex soldier’s hypothetical rescue couldn’t wait another half an hour.

               With no small effort, James batted Sherlock’s anxieties away like flies, planting himself directly in the pacing detective’s path.  He grabbed Sherlock with both arms, pleased and more than a little impressed at how quickly the detective’s tightly wound nerves were replaced with a pleasant fluttering, both of his stomach and his eyelashes.

               Sometimes it was still difficult for the criminal to believe how flustered Sherlock got at the simple touch of a hand.

               _He’s probably fine._

               The detective sighed deeply, muscles untensing under James’s hands as the criminal’s calm soothed his fears. Suddenly, he was grateful he hadn’t gotten both of them wound up for nothing. John was an adult, and could handle himself. Sherlock knew he hated it when John babied him—it seemed hypocritical not to return the favor if he was going to be given his space.

               Although, the pattern still didn’t fit. But sometimes there were exceptions. Sometimes…

               He turned his attention to James, suddenly aware of their close proximity.

               “Apologies. You were saying?”

               “Uninteresting astronomy rubbish,” the criminal gave Sherlock’s arm a squeeze that made him feel like his heart was melting, “Nothing you’re interested in.”

               _I’m interested that it interests you._ “You’re making an algorithm.”

               “You’re like candy,” James started to play with Sherlock’s collar, his fingers occasionally brushing skin and sending blood rushing to places the detective had _sworn_ he wasn’t going to indulge until he was certain John was safe. Perhaps that wasn’t of utmost importance, after all.

               _Sweet?_

The criminal’s grin was a study in temptation, _No,_ _you’re hard and I’d like you in my mouth._

All the blood that remained for Sherlock’s bodily functions rushed to his face as James snickered.

               “You…” the detective laughed, a self conscious, breathy noise, “J-”

               _Aw, cat got your tongue?_

_I’m not responding to that._

_Clearly, I’ve got you flustered,_ James pressed their hips together, and Sherlock stifled a groan, quickly losing what little willpower he’d had left to go with the original plan for the evening.

               The detective licked his lips, “Shut up,” he managed to get out, a smirk twisting his lips despite the fact that the flush still hadn’t left his cheeks.

               “I can live with that,” James said throatily, pulling Sherlock down into a kiss that stole the air from the detective’s lungs, his Marked hand tracing patterns on what was exposed of his neck.

               The criminal’s body warm against his, Sherlock pulled them closer together. James was grinning against his mouth and the detective’s head was spinning (would it ever stop spinning when they kissed? would the feeling intensify with time?)…no, he was literally spinning. He was backed up against a wall, and just caught a glimpse of eyes black with desire before James kneeled in front of him.

               _Like candy._ Sherlock ordinarily rolled his eyes at such a thing, but the criminal had a way of changing everything he did into a pick up line.

               And it worked. Every damn time.

               _You know it,_ James’s hands were on the waistband of Sherlock’s trousers, the detective’s skin alight with desire wherever Mark traced skin. Sherlock leaned his head back in anticipation, a groan already building in his throat—

               And a door slammed open.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Neither consultant even jumped, though the thought of John Watson walking in on them in such a state was enough to make even the most brilliant minds in London flinch.

               All the energy seemed to leave the room in a single gust, leaving Sherlock to bite his lip in irritation and James to wonder how upset the detective would be if he personally strangled whoever had just walked in.

               “Hey sorry to-! Oh…oh shit, I’m, uh…”

               _Sebastian fucking Moran._

               James closed his eyes in irritation, “ _Sebastian-”_ he repeated the name.

               _If it’s any consolation,_ Sherlock quipped, _I won’t miss him if he gets into an ‘accident’. Won’t even investigate._

_Hush._

               The criminal turned to glare at the sniper, clearly tomato red in the face, even in the darkened flat. Despite his irritation, however, it was impossible to discredit the fact that all feelings of arousal were very quickly disappearing from his and Sherlock’s bodies. The detective’s gaze towards Sebastian could be better described as curious than hostile.

               “How did you get this address?” Sherlock inquired, just as James was opening his mouth again to speak.

               “Well…” Sebastian was still taking in the scene in front of him, wide eyed, “I, uh…I mean, I…Mycroft gave it to me and it’s kind of an emergency, so I didn’t bother buzzing or anything…”

               James narrowed his eyes, “Does he know I’m here?”

               “It’s…no,” the sniper seemed to be forcing himself not to look at his boss, still on his knees. James took note of this, and stood up slowly. “It’s for Sherlock. Mycroft figured he’d be here, I guess. He didn’t know you guys were doing…stuff.”

               The criminal would have been amused and mildly irritated at Sebastian’s discomfort, had he not felt Sherlock’s blood run cold. Before he could shoot the detective a question, vocal or not, the younger Holmes took a step away from the wall.

               “What _kind_ ,” he put emphasis on the word that made Sebastian unconsciously shrink back, “of emergency?”

               “Uh-”

               “Speak quickly!” Sherlock’s voice had risen in volume at least by half.

               “Mycroft gave me your address to tell you…that’s _you_ , not Jim. He doesn’t know Jim is here. I don’t think. He wanted me to tell you that your friend Watson isn’t safe. There’s someone named Magnussen that’s taken John because of…” Sebastian glanced at Jim, “Because of some issue with Mycroft.”

               There were a thousand thoughts racing through the Bond at once. For one, what was Sebastian hiding? For another, what the _fuck_ was Magnussen trying to pull by picking a fight with someone as powerful as Mycroft?

               Sherlock’s eyes were boring holes into the back of James’s skull. The criminal turned to look at him.

               _You didn’t...?_

_Don’t be ridiculous. You’d have known._

_I meant with Magnussen._

_I don’t know what he’s doing, either!_

Sherlock shook his head, starting to pace, “This doesn’t make any sense! Mycroft must know you’re here. Because if I leave, and you’re here alone-”

               “Guys-”

               “He has no way of knowing I’m here. Unless Sebastian knew and told him, which I highly doubt, given the look on his face when he walked in.”

               The detective rounded on Sebastian, who quailed at the touch of madness in his gaze, “How do I know Mycroft hasn’t done this himself? How do I know Magnussen isn’t a lie to draw me away-”

               “Because there’s a fucking time limit on this!” Sebastian exploded, snapping all of Sherlock’s scrambled thoughts into line.

               _Time limit._

“What kind of a-” James started to ask, but was cut off by Sherlock, who was already pushing past Sebastian to the door.

               “No time.” _We need to get to John._ _It’s worth the risk._

               “How will we find him if we don’t even know where he is?” Sebastian called after Sherlock, who was already dashing out the door, adrenaline pumping.

               James watched them go from the now empty flat, heart sinking for reasons he didn’t understand. Just as he was wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now, Sherlock popped back around the doorframe.

               _Coming?_

The criminal balked.

               Since he and Sherlock had been together, they’d mostly chosen to ignore the contrast between their professions; their roles in the world. James supposed he’d been naiive to think that that would continue forever. Because now, here was Sherlock Holmes, asking him to be a hero, and the criminal’s thoughts had all stopped in their tracks.

               James had never, not in his wildest dreams, thought he could be a hero. He’d quietly killed Carl Powers, lived his life in the shadows, even though he was at the top of the pyramid by no small margin. He’d dedicated years of his life to trying to destroy an innocent man, for Christ’s sake.

               And now the same man was asking him if he wanted to help _save_ someone?

               Sherlock took the criminal by the hand, dragging him out the door without a coat and making his decision for him.

               _No time for sentiment._

_What if John’s fine, and this is all a ploy by Mycroft to finally catch me and terminate the Bond?_

The look in Sherlock’s eyes said it all.

               _I can’t take that chance._

(o0o0o0o0)

               Mary initially didn’t think much of the footsteps crashing down the stairs, accompanied by Sherlock’s semi familiar baritone. He sounded a strange combination of excited and panicked.

               _“How will we find him if we don’t know where he is?”_ asked a faint, vaguely familiar voice. Mary strained to hear above what sounded like two pairs of thundering, hurried footsteps.

               _“It’s deducible, despite the fact that Mycroft didn’t give us anything. Magnussen is in news. He’s a journalist above all else so even when he’s holding someone for ransom or leverage, he’ll try to get a story out of it. He wants something people will read, so it must be flashy, plus, if he’s going to try to bully us into anything, we have to find it. Magnussen may be the most morally depraved man in London, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to want blood on his hands, especially not with all his enemies no doubt waiting for some dirt on him. At least, not if he’s uncertain he’ll even get something out of it. So John isn’t already dead, he’s not somewhere incredibly hard to find and he’ll need to be a headline story, so perhaps something already attracting attention…”_

Mary didn’t hear the rest of Sherlock’s rant, because four words seemed to have trapped themselves inside of her skull, echoing as her pulse accelerated and her ears rang.

               ‘ _John isn’t already dead.’_

Already. John was already in danger, was what that meant. Because of…Magnussen? What about Mycroft? Was Magnussen doing this because of her inability to give more information to Mycroft? Why would Magnussen care about that? Why the bloody hell was Mycroft involved with Magnussen at _all_?

There were a thousand questions that needed to be posed, one of which was who returned down the stairs with Sherlock after his heavy footfalls dashed back up to 221B.

               The answer was an obvious one. Perhaps a more pressing question was whether or not going to rescue John was worth the risk of getting seen and possibly killed by Moriarty.

               Actually…that answer was rather glaring  , as well.

               Mary tiptoed across the floor, silently tugging her shoes on with a tad more force than necessary as she listened at her door. They would leave any moment. And she was going to have to be right behind them.

               _“A cab is going to be too slow,_ ” Sherlock declared, _“We’ll have to—did you plan anything?”_

 _“Um,_ ” the familiar voice, neither Moriarty’s nor Sherlock’s, sounded quite unsure.

               _“Don’t bother,”_ Sherlock interrupted, _“I know the answer is no. We’ll have to improvise.”_

Mary wished she had a gun on her, but she resorted to grabbing a small knife from the kitchen to stuff in her boot. No, maybe two would be better. John Watson deserved two knives, after all he’d done for her.  

               She threw her door open just in time to see the front door shut, throwing a gust of wind across her face.

               Time to save John Watson.

(o0o0o0o0)

               The freezing temperature was even more glaring without a jacket, and it made James shiver almost violently, all the hairs on his arms standing up. Sherlock’s hand against his was just as cold against his as he dragged the criminal behind him, Sebastian beside them.

               _Mycroft could see us-_ James started.

               _Move faster!_

Their breath escaped them in rapid puffs made more obvious by the night sky. At least, James supposed, they had cover of darkness to keep them from Mycroft’s eyes. Perhaps if they avoided street lights, they could avoid being seen.

               But that didn’t seem to be what Sherlock had in mind. The detective barreled past what few civilians were on the streets, shoving them violently to the side and leaving them to hurl curses after James, who supposed, ironically, he was the least intimidating out of the group.

               Strangely, as the minutes ticked on and the air started to burn in his lungs, a far more poignant worry began to fester in the criminal’s chest.

               Initially, he’d thought it was Sherlock fearing for the two of them, but something was different about this feeling. He knew it was seeping over from the detective’s side of the Bond, because when he skidded to a stop outside a large, concrete building, causing James to bump into him from behind, every part of them that came into contact suddenly felt like it had been physically injected with whatever this feeling was.

               Sherlock had already ushered them inside what James now recognized as a parking garage, and their footsteps echoed in the hollow structure. Sebastian skidded on some ice just as realization struck the criminal.

               John. This was for _John_. Sherlock was feeling for John Watson. He _cared_ about John and what happened to him. James felt a sickening pang in his chest at the realization that maybe everyone felt this. He knew _he_ felt it for Sherlock. Maybe even a bit for Sebastian. If something happened to the sniper he couldn’t pretend he wouldn’t care _at all_. Actually, he might have cared a good deal. It might even have _hurt._ And he didn’t even _like_ everything about Sebastian.

               He’d never really thought about the fact that other people felt about each other the same way he felt about Sherlock, but looking at it now, it seemed so obvious. It was like he’d forgotten.

               Disturbed by this new theory, James emerged from his thoughts and was met with the image of Sherlock and Sebastian, side by side, sitting on two motorcycles.

               _Motorcycles?_

               He blinked.

               Sherlock raised an eyebrow, _I’d thought it would be fairly obvious which of us you’d be riding behind._

Sebastian, gleefully oblivious, kicked his ride to life. He looked like a child with a new toy.

               James flushed, but did as Sherlock asked, climbing on behind him and wrapping his arms around the detective’s firm torso. He started their bike as well, the engine roaring to life and echoing off the walls of the shell of a building.

               “Follow me!” Sherlock bellowed to Sebastian over the noise, and without waiting for an answer from the sniper, took off. James tightened his grip, caring less about Sherlock’s comfort and more about trying not to die by way of sheer willpower. So distracted was he by holding tight to Sherlock that, as they rocketed out into the night, he noticed nothing of a third rider, trailing some distance behind them, her platinum hair shining as it flew behind her in the moonlight.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Mary couldn’t see her knuckles through her gloves, but she knew they were sure to be a skeletal white. She squinted to see the man she now recognized as Sebastian Moran, the boy who’d saved her from her premature burial, who was following Sherlock and Moriarty like a missile followed its target. He wore a black jacket, which made trying to see him absolute _hell_ , so she currently was relying on the much smaller target of his bronze colored hair. This street was almost completely empty save for some parked cars—Sherlock must have been taking them a roundabout route to avoid traffic. Mary bit her lip, wishing she knew where they were going. She tasted iron.

(o0o0o0o0)

               _You just ran a redlight._

_They don’t count if no one’s around._

_Sherlock!_

The detective sped up, and James tightened his grip even more. He was certain at this point that it must be interfering with Sherlock’s breathing.

               _You’re going to suffocate me. Calm down. And get out of my head._

James, incredulous, scoffed, “ _Calm down?_ Sherlock, you’re going too fast to-”

               Sherlock popped a wheelie, and James yelped in terror, falling completely silent when they returned to two tires.

               _You were saying?_

_Shut up!_

“Hey guys!” Sebastian called from behind them, sounding apprehensive, “Not to put a damper on the romantic mood, but there’s someone following us!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Mary took a sharp left as soon as the words left Sebastian’s mouth, heading down a sidestreet and then into an alley. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Hopefully Moriarty couldn’t hear it.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “THEN FOLLOW THEM!” Jim bellowed over his shoulder, and Sherlock chimed in half a second after Sebastian had already started to turn in a move so quick that he was certain he’d damaged his tires.

               “And get to the bonfire!”

               Bonfire. What bonfire? And what the hell had possessed Sherlock Holmes, consulting genius whatever, to buy _motorcycles?_

Right. Focus. Eye on the prize. If there was one thing Sebastian lived for, it was adrenaline. He increased the gas, the wind whipping at his hair as he followed their hunter into an alley, skidding slightly on ice.

               Actually, that blonde hair looked familiar. _Really_ familiar. But _surely_ it couldn’t have been…?

(o0o0o0o0)

               James frowned at the sudden appearance of cars in front of them.

               “Sh—Sherlock? There’s some JESUS FUCKING CHRIST!”

               Sherlock seamlessly weaved his way between the vehicles, to what James was certain must have been an _incalculable_ amount of cursing from their fellow drivers. The criminal could feel metal brushing past them by a mere hair’s breadth, and he wasn’t sure if Sherlock was doing it on purpose or not.

               James’s eyes widened when he saw what was ahead of them, “Sherlock, don’t you FUCKING DARE-!”

               There was a cacophony of horns and skidding tires as Sherlock breezed through an intersection. James heard a worrying crash behind them.

               _That one counted!_

_Rules are boring anyway._

(o0o0o0o0)

               “MOTHER OF CHRIST!”

               Mary shot through a group of shady looking men, catching a quick whiff of opium as they flattened themselves to the alley walls. She rounded a corner, and was nearly blinded by hundreds of headlights.

               Against traffic. She’d have to take the pavement. Too late to turn around. Maybe she could catch them this way.

               “Stop!” Sebastian called after her, and Mary glided down the pavement, increasing her speed so that the sniper’s calls were nearly completely lost to the wind. She needed to find John.

               She had to lose him, and get back behind Sherlock and Jim again, fast.

               Mary did a quick mental map of where she was in London. Her tires were barely gripping the pavement at this point due to ice, but she didn’t care. There was a steady stretch in front of her with few obstacles. Quickly but steadily, she reached down to her boot, where one of her two knives were hidden.

               Thinking of nothing but her target, she half turned, and threw.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Oh, fuck…”

               Sebastian had little more time to speak before he felt a shooting pain in his right shoulder. He howled in agony, the blade of the knife buried deep enough in his flesh to hurt, but not so deep that it didn’t wobble and cause _more_ pain with every maneuver he made. Warmth started to spread from the point of impact, soaking through his clothes.

               His vision blurred with tears, but he pushed past the pain and gathered what should have been a scream into a message.

               “MARY! THIS IS SUICIDE! JIM’S GOING TO BE THERE! YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE YOU’RE GOING! GO HOME!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               As if in answer to Sebastian’s hollered message, Mary felt a soft buzz in her pocket. Knowing the only person who could have texted her was held captive, she felt sick as she opened the message, skimming quickly so she didn’t run into anything.

               It chilled her to the bone, but more than anything, it angered her. Like a match to spilled fuel, it ignited her.

               **dearest mary, bon a petit, as they say in your old language. john watson should taste lovely roasted. perhaps you shouldn’t keep your mouth closed so much.  –CAM**

Aside from the lewd undertones of the message, Mary was infuriated that someone who knew of her old life, who knew everything she’d been through, could _possibly_ consider terrorizing her like this. For not giving information she didn’t have.

               Charles Augustus Magnussen. Seeing his initials triggered the memory of his full name—she’d been well aware of his existence in her past life. The napoleon of blackmail. Arguably just as morally depraved as Moriarty. Perhaps more.

She wanted him dead. But more than that, she wanted John alive. And there was only one place that fit Sherlock’s earlier descriptions and aligned with the message’s hint.

               _Something flashy. Something already attracting attention. Roasted. Bonfire._

It was the bonfire. It had to be. Stomach sickened, she remembered John joking about it earlier, about throwing Mycroft into the flames if he continued to give her trouble.

               And now John was there, in his place. It was almost like Mycroft had heard, but like Sherlock had said, this kind of creative cruelty was very clearly the design of Magnussen.

               Mary half turned to Sebastian, eyes ablaze, and hurled their destination over her shoulder like a hand grenade.

               “BONFIRE!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               James was no longer the slightest bit cold, despite the frigid air whipping at his face. His heart was pounding, and his sweater was sticking to his skin with sweat. He wondered how much of that was Sherlock’s nerves getting to him, and how much was muscle strain from holding onto the detective like a lifeline.

               Traffic was getting thicker. A group of pedestrians in puffy winter jackets yelped and jumped backwards off a crosswalk as they hurtled past. Sherlock swerved wildly to the left when a car door opened in front of them.

               _Hurry up hurry up hurry UP!_ the detective repeated the words like a mantra, and as much as James would have loved to reassure him, he couldn’t help but agree.

               _Hurry up._

He didn’t like the idea of Sherlock having to go to John’s funeral. _He_ didn’t like the idea of having to go to John’s funeral.

               “Shut up!” the words were harsh, but there was a large quantity of pain behind them.

               James obeyed, until he saw the stopped traffic in front of him, cars packed together like sardines in a can. Silently, he pointed, unable to form words because _surely_ Sherlock didn’t plan on going _through_ there…

               “Sherl-” they were getting closer, “Sherlock, slow down.”

               They didn’t slow down.

               “SHERLOCK?”

               “I see it,” the detective snipped.

               “YOU’RE NOT ACTING LIKE YOU-”

               “Trust me!”

               “ _WE’RE NOT GOING TO FIT!”_ This was it. They were going to die. He was going to die. This fucking doofus was going to get him killed and they were going to hit in the span of one second-

               Sherlock glided smoothly off the road and onto a pavement, missing their demise by probably half a second.

               James’s eyes went wide at what was in front of them, “ _WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU-?”_

               Before he could get any further in his criticism, they were bumping down several flights of stairs, Sherlock feeding off of James’s fear and turning it into adrenaline. He stared straight at the path ahead of him as though he could will it to be shorter.

               James panted, not sure if he was actually taking in any oxygen. He loosened his grip on Sherlock ever so slightly, exhausted.

               “You’re insane,” he breathed.

               Sherlock ordinarily would have responded with something clever, but he could see trees. They were here.

               The unmistakable glow of fire seemed to tease them from afar.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Mary stumbled getting off her bike, but she didn’t care. She took the opportunity, while she was getting her bearings, to grab her other knife from her boot. 

               The orange glow of fire caused all the air to leave her lungs in a single puff of smoke. John was in there. They were running out of time.

               The heat steadily grew as she sprinted towards the crowd.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian nearly lost consciousness when he pulled the knife out of his shoulder. Blood was trickling down his chest, and he felt slightly nauseated. The blade was covered with the stuff, sticky red on silver, and he wondered how he might look to the casual observer; hair mussed, leather clad, panting, holding a bloody knife while standing in the shadows.

               Speaking of murderers, he needed to find Jim. He had to make sure he didn’t see Mary. Or else she might as well burn with Watson. And this time, Mycroft wasn’t there to save her.

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Don’t wait for me!” Sherlock dashed off towards the bonfire, and James stumbled, dizzy, before running off to follow him. Even a person of Sherlock Holmes’s distinct image was difficult to follow in this crowd, and before he knew it, they’d been separated. James shoved a middle aged man out of the way, straining to hear Sherlock above the crowd.

_“John!”_

               There he was. James followed the detective’s familiar baritone, calling for his best friend.

_“John! Stop that fire!”_

               The heat was getting worse, but it looked like they’d just started the fire. It was spreading fast, though, and up this close it almost hurt James’s eyes to look at. Breathing was difficult, with this many bodies around him, coupled with the extreme heat.

_“John!”_

               Another voice called this time, not Sherlock’s. A woman’s.

               Time seemed to slow.

               James broke free of the crowd to find himself a few paces behind Sherlock, who was already digging through flaming tinder with nothing more than motorcycle gloves to protect his hands from the heat. A dead woman’s eyes, grey as the smoke curling up towards the sky, latched onto James’s. And, behind him, another pair of eyes analyzed their target, before something small and silver was released from a hand, flying end over end until it lodged in James’s back.

               People started to scream, the criminal one of them. He left the knife in—to keep bloodflow down, but as he whirled around, it started to slip anyway, making him see spots.

               There was movement all around him, the flickering light of the blaze only adding to the general confusion. Only one figure was standing still, looking horribly, pitifully guilty.

               Sebastian unfroze, running towards him, and James shrugged him off.

               “Boss, I’m sorry, I had to distract-”

               “I trusted you,” James muttered. He stumbled backwards, and, unexpectedly, another knife slashed him across the back, deep and long, before he saw a shock of blonde hair run past his peripheral vision to join Sherlock at the base of the flames.

               They were both screaming for John still. Sherlock and Jo. Or Mary. Whatever the dead bitch wanted her name to be.

               “Holy shit!” Sebastian cursed, “That wasn’t—she just—I was just supposed to make sure you didn’t see her.”

               For how long for how long for _how long?_

               James’s fury must have shown on his face, because Sebastian’s expression suddenly held a hint of his old fear of the criminal.

               _Sherlock_ , James silently called out, feeling suddenly just as desolate as he had after the rooftop. Alone and betrayed and in a _lot_ of pain. Everything was so loud. _Why_ did everything have to be so loud?

               _Here._

Sherlock and Jo were finally dragging a mostly limp John Watson out of the flames, the ground around them a mess of firewood both scorched and intact.

               “John?” “John!” “Look at me.” “Can you hear me?” “It’s Sherlock.” “It’s Mary.”

James’s skin throbbed where Sherlock had been burned. He smelled burnt hair and smoke and the flames were still hurting his eyes. The frigid air was starting to numb his fingers, but because of Sherlock’s proximity to the flames, he was also sweating through his clothing.

               There were sirens in the distance. Sebastian must have called the police. Unless that was Mycroft coming to get them.

               This could be it, then. Mycroft was going to sever him from Sherlock. Jo was alive because Sebastian had betrayed him.

               _At least Watson is alive,_ James thought caustically, _at least Sherlock will have his pet to converse with when he’s too brain dead to do anything interesting anymore._

It felt like blood was pulsing down his back—there was a worrying amount of the warm liquid soaked into his sweater, and the spots in front of his eyes were getting larger. Jo knew where to cut, obviously.

               _Sherl…_

James was grateful for the hands that caught him before he faded and hit the ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for taking so long to update. I'm really not feeling good mentally and I've had a lot of things to do. I'm trying my best. Annnnd there are gonna be some serious serious discussions taking place next chapter. This was short, but I find that if you fluff up action sequences too much, they’re less exciting. Clarity will come next chapter on Magnussen, Mycroft, and many other things. Hopefully James isn’t too upset about Mary… Until next time.


	36. Transit

­­               _Are you awake?_

James stirred, rolling over to that he was facing Sherlock. He blindly nuzzled in closer to the detective’s warmth, sighing. They normally slept quite close, but today especially, they were a tangle of limbs, closer to one body, one mind, than two.

               _Am now._

 _You were waking up, I could tell,_ Sherlock asserted, _I can see different parts of your conscious becoming active, but I’m always too drowsy to watch very closely. Terribly frustrating._

               James sighed.

               _You just wake up?_

“Mmhm,” Sherlock switched to audible communication, and bedsprings creaked slightly as the detective sat up and stretched. The criminal blinked, wincing at the brightness his eyes were assaulted with. Everything around them was a crisp, sterile white, right down to the standard hospital sleepwear he was dressed in.

               “Why didn’t they bother turning the lights off?” James complained groggily, squinting at Sherlock. The detective looked to be wearing normal clothing, his hair only slightly mussed from their sleep together, which made sense, because they’d been crammed into a single bed, rather than one of the doubles awarded to Soulmates. Sherlock must have just stopped by for a nap, rather than a full night’s sleep.

               “’S my fault,” Sherlock watched his Soulmate with blue eyes just a tad apologetic, “When I fell asleep here, I forgot to turn them off.” _You were already out cold, so they told me I might as well sleep here to help your healing. I was really only half awake._

James raised his eyebrows in surprise. Now that he thought about it, his back didn’t hurt in the slightest, not to mention his skin no longer burned where Sherlock had gotten too close to the flames.

               The criminal eyed his companion’s clothing, sitting up “John’s alright, then?”

               Sherlock paused before nodding, unsure if that was a hint of jealousy he was hearing in James’s voice.

               “Incorrect deduction,” the criminal declared grumpily, “You’re terrible with emotions.”

               A bushy eyebrow raised, and James sunk back into his pillow, exhaustion sinking into his bones once more as he ran a hand through his hair.

               _I don’t know what to think of this._

But it was more than that. James felt… _stupid_ , on several different levels. He wasn’t really angry at Jo (Mary?) any longer, but that had been replaced with a general frustration with himself for investing so much energy where it was unnecessary. He’d let his emotions dictate his actions and because of that, he’d wasted time and energy on a production that, in the end, had endangered his life and his secrecy more than just letting her live. He’d been irrationally cruel, but then, on the other hand, he almost wished he could have held on to the reasons behind his cruelty a little bit tighter, so he didn’t need to think about this. Meanwhile, he’d taken Sebastian under his wing despite the sniper being a petulant, incompetent brat, when he’d _actually_ been helping Mary the entire time. Supposedly, there was no harm done, but what if the stakes had been different?

               Then there was the fact that ordinary people felt just as strongly about things as he did, so essentially the reasons for his isolation were false and a large portion of his practice was in danger, because how the hell was he supposed to arrange murders for actual _people?_

               And then they also had to consider how they were going to get out of here and continue living together when Mycroft was hell bent on severing—

               Mycroft.

               The consultants turned to one another.

               “Who called the ambulance?”

               “How should I know?”

               “Mycroft knows we’re here. We’re lucky he hasn’t already done anything while we slept.”

               “I don’t feel different, do you?”

               “No.”

               Sherlock was very quickly starting to panic. They were at the bloody hospital. Who _knew_ how many security cameras they’d been past the night before? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course Mycroft knew they were here.

               “We have to go,” the detective leapt to his feet, starting to drag James off the bed with him.

               “Wait, Sherl-”

               “Mm?” only Sherlock could make such a passive response taut with aggression.

               James’s stomach fluttered now that he had the undivided attention of Sherlock’s sharp gaze.

               _Kiss me? In case Mycroft finds—_

Sherlock’s expression only half softened as he interrupted the criminal, pressing their lips together with just enough pressure to serve as a reminder they were in a hurry. James practically melted into the detective’s arms.

               Wanting more than anything to hold Sherlock close one last time before they potentially were split forever, the criminal’s hands scrambled for purchase. He needed to remember what Sherlock’s hair smelled like, the form of his shoulders, the colors in his eyes. But Sherlock was infinity, and James didn’t have time to satisfy even one of those needs before the detective pulled away and started throwing clothing at him.

               _You’ll need to put something decent on. I know you like to look put together all the time so—_

“Sherlock,” the criminal was still in a slight daze. Had that been their last kiss?

               _…John will be able to manage if I don’t stop in one last time before we sneak out—_

“Sherlock.”

               _We’re at Bart’s. I know the entire hospital by memory, so I can find us a way out. I know a few ways off the rooftop that, while difficult to execute, may keep us out of Mycroft’s—_

“William.”

               There was only one haughty drawl that matched the one that had just made itself known behind them.  The consultants turned around so quickly they almost got whiplash, to be met with none other than the hawkish face of Mycroft Holmes.

               Sherlock was already coiled like a spring, his pulse accelerated, but while they shared a heartbeat, James remained where he was, waiting and watching.

               There was a tense moment of silence.

               “What are you doing here?” Sherlock demanded. James actually had to bite back a smile at the surge of protectiveness currently consuming the detective’s emotions. Damn it all. He needed to focus, but part of him didn’t want possibly his last moments sharing a mind with Sherlock to be tainted by negativity.

               It looked like Mycroft was fighting the urge to roll his eyes, “Calm down, brother mine. People are trying to sleep.”

               “It’s morning,” Sherlock practically growled.

               “And this is a _hospital_ ,” Mycroft said condescendingly, “Not a place for yelling.”

               James noticed that Mycroft had bags under his eyes, his posture a little less straight than usual.

               Sherlock started on the defensive, “If you’ve come to sever the Bond then-”

               “Oh, save me the speech, that’s not what I’m here for.”

               Sherlock blinked, shaking his head, “What are you-?”

               Mycroft looked like he was in actual agony, “Sherlock, the two of you had my blessing the moment I saw how affected Jim’s camera hacking skills were by his _sentiment_ ,” he emphasized the word, “for you. The two of you are the least of my problems right now.”

               The tirade Sherlock had been about to start died in his throat as he stared at Mycroft incredulously.

               _Surely_ they’d heard incorrectly.

               “Don’t look so surprised,” Mycroft added, looking down his nose at Sherlock, “We both went through proper schooling, although,” he gave James a conspiratorial glance, “I’m shocked he made it through. We both know the biology of a strong Bond.”

               “Aren’t we a threat?” Sherlock demanded, “What about the hazard to London’s safety?”

               “You’re far more dangerous when you’re at each other’s throats. At least now that you’re together there should be a consistent cycle of destruction. Imagine what would happen to the crime rates in London if you,” he looked at James, “finally managed to off Sherlock. Or the chaos that would erupt if the top of the criminal empire was caught and jailed.”

               James’s heart sank for reasons he wished he didn’t have to confront. Of course there was no escape at this point. He’d fixing ordinary people’s petty problems for the rest of his life.

               The rest of his life with Sherlock.

               _The rest of my life with Sherlock._

               They didn’t have to hide anymore. Not from Mycroft, at least. Or the rest of the Holmes family. But where did they go from there? There still was the issue of Scotland Yard and the press. Surely, Mycroft was the biggest obstacle, and he could pull some strings, but how would they even make _money?_ Were they going to live together? And still keep their current professions? Would John and Mary move into a separate flat?

               “And after your other problems are eliminated,” James started slowly, “Will we be back at the top of your list?”

               Mycroft turned to the criminal, sizing him up a moment before declaring, “There are too many goldfish in the world to go around damaging the few good minds we have,” he paused, and James silently took a moment to appreciate exactly how big of a favor he was doing them, even taking the Bond into account. He hoped it showed on his face enough for Mycroft to read his silent gratitude. “But I haven’t come to discuss goldfish, I’ve come to discuss a shark.”

               Sherlock slipped out of ‘protective boyfriend’ mode and into ‘consulting detective’ mode.

               James froze. Is that what they were now? Boyfriends?

               _Too mundane,_ the detective frowned, _Consultants._

 _Consulting couple,_ James resisted an absurd urge to giggle. He was almost giddy.

               A heavy sigh from Mycroft snapped them back to reality, “Do take into account,” he pleaded, “That I cannot hear whatever you’re talking about right now. If it pertains to Magnussen, do tell.”

               Sherlock, to his own great frustration, blushed, and judging by Mycroft’s face, he’d already jumped to the worst possible conclusion.

               The detective shook himself, eager to forget the awkward moment, “Why did Magnussen want John?” he cut straight to the chase, “And if we’ve had your blessing for some time, why didn’t you tell us?”

               Mycroft laboriously pulled a chair away from the wall, and made a great task out of sitting in it before he began what James _hoped_ was a very lengthy explanation. It had better be, after all the trouble they’d been through.

               “Brother mine, or, I should say,” he looked at James grimly, “Brothers of mine. No doubt after all this is over we’ll be hearing wedding bells in no time.”

               It was the criminal’s turn to blush. A _wedding?_ Surely not.

               “As previously mentioned, I knew after seeing Jim’s hacking skills suffer that he felt something for you. That, and there were certain clips that slipped through that I was notified of. I saw the way he looked at you, Sherlock. No one that looks at another person like he looks at you could cause any real damage. Not the kind that I have a responsibility to protect London from. And then there was the chemistry of the Bond, too, which would inevitably bring you two close together. Bonds that end in death are almost always Bonds between one very strong individual and one weak one. Not two equals. Take into account, this was after the incident with Ms. Morstan. Looking at all the factors…emotional strain seemed to be the culprit of that. Coming to terms with the situation you two were in. Now that you’re settled, I highly doubt something like that will happen again.”

               He gave them each a pointed look before continuing.

               “Magnussen, however, is what kept me from telling you this earlier.”

               James raised an eyebrow, “Surely he can’t have that much leverage over you.”

               Mycroft huffed, indignant, “Politics is a game, and he knows how to play it. He has information on a number of government scandals that he threatened to expose, unless we give him a better story. You.”

               It took James a moment to realize that it was him Mycroft was talking about.

               “Me?” he raised his eyebrows.

               “The consulting criminal,” Mycroft’s eyes glittered dangerously, “There’s not a person in London who wouldn’t read that story. Not when you’ve just gone and Bonded with the man who accused you of trying to blow him up, at your trial.”

               _Oh._

               “So he wants my story…for what?” James shook his head, “Money? Surely he realizes who I am? His logic makes no sense. If he knew anything about me, he’d know I could make him wealthier than any story he wrote about me could.”

               “Since when do you indulge threats?”

               The criminal frowned. Mycroft had a point.

               “Exactly,” Mycroft continued, “Magnussen wants your story, because of the money, and because this is in his very nature. He picks people apart for all the world to see like they’re frogs on a dissecting tray. He takes a malicious sort of joy in exposing the freaks of the world. No one who is different is safe. Especially not you. You could be his crowning glory, forgive my choice of words.”

               James flinched internally. So Magnussen was a _bully_ , then. And a greedy one at that.

               Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother, “So John-?”

               “Mary, is the next key factor,” Mycroft interrupted, glancing at James, “I hate to break it to you, but Sebastian couldn’t stomach what you did to that girl. He’d been keeping an eye on you for me for quite some time. Now don’t look like that.”

               James balked, wondering how exactly he looked. Probably far from pleased.

               “He is loyal to you, but he never was unconditionally loyal. He’s still very young, Jim, and in far over his head. You cannot expect to expose him to something horrific like that and _not_ expect him to come running to the only other authority figure in his life.”

               “Was he working for you?” James demanded, still feeling mildly betrayed.

               “I suspect,” Mycroft sighed, “That he was always working for you rather than me. But it’s difficult to discern when the poor thing probably didn’t know, himself. What matters is he told me about Mary, and in exchange for any information she could give me on you, for Magnussen, I gave her a new identity. A place to stay, at Baker Street, where she befriended none other than your John Watson.”

               Sherlock’s face lit up with clarity, “That’s why I never met her. James would have known, even if he never saw her. The Bond would have given her away.”

               “Or you’re just a complete imbecile when it comes to human interaction,” Mycroft smiled caustically, and James had to fight a strong urge to defend the detective. Instead, he continued the story on his own.

               “So Watson was thrown into the flames because of Mary.”

               Mycroft paused, “…Unfortunately, you don’t share much with your employees. Even the ones closest to you. She couldn’t give enough information for me to give Magnussen, he got impatient, so John Watson went into the flames.”

               Sherlock nodded to himself, “And now he expects her to be frightened enough to talk, and give information she doesn’t have,” he rounded on Mycroft, “Why did _you_ indulge him in the first place? Surely no government scandal could-”

               “It’s important, and it could lose me my position.”

               “Doubt it’s that bloody important. What did you do, get caught stuffing cakes in your face by the dozen-?”

               _Sherlock…_ James chided quietly.

               Mycroft’s eyes glittered dangerously, though the criminal was certain there had to be at least a pinch of gratitude in there somewhere. They both knew Sherlock was capable of voicing far crueler insults, and he would.

               “It _is_ that important. And since I’m the only child who keeps dear Mummy from offing herself out of shame, I suggest that you treat it that way.”

               Sherlock and James grew very quiet, their blood running cold at the reminder of what could very easily have happened to Holmes…though not the Holmes Mycroft was referring to.

               A mad theory crossed James’s mind that perhaps Mycroft knew exactly what he was referring to. But no, he hadn’t known they’d gone onto the rooftop, had he?

               _Perhaps something to discuss later,_ Sherlock suggested.

               Intrigued, James silently agreed, clearing his throat after what must have been a substantial silence.

               The detective huffed, “Well there has to be _some_ solution! One we’re just not seeing.”

               But there wasn’t. Either they made Magnussen lose interest by ruining James’s reputation, or they ruined Sherlock’s and James’s by painting the entire thing as fake. Neither option seemed viable, and they certainly weren’t going to deal with it directly by facing the press. If Mycroft hadn’t seen a clean solution yet, there probably wasn’t one.

               An idea started to take shape in James’s mind.

               _Sherlock, I could-_

_No._

The criminal’s gaze was heavy when it met the detective’s.

_Sometimes it’s the only solution. I’d make it look like he got into an accident. Or like it was someone else._

Sherlock considered.

               _He’s never going to stop,_ James continued, _People like him don’t stop._

The detective fell quiet once more. Of course, logically, James was correct. And, this wasn’t only their lives at stake—it was Mycroft and Mary and John, as well.

               But they needed to work quickly, and James took his time when he planned things like this. Plus, Magnussen was far from stupid. If it somehow got out that James was to blame for his murder, they were as good as dead, too.

               There _was_ an alternative…

               _Absolutely not_ , James stopped that train of thought before it could leave the station. Sherlock frowned.

               “I’ll leave the two of you to think,” Mycroft finally broke the silence, standing up with a pointed glance at Sherlock, “Don’t do anything rash.”

               “Wouldn’t dream of it,” the detective muttered, already considering a _very_ rash idea.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Alone once more, James sighed, dejected. They had one made it past one obstacle, only to find another, even larger one in their path.

               “We’ll find a way,” he raised his voice slightly, “And _not_ your way. I should be the one to-”

               “It’s easier for Mycroft to pull strings for his brother than for you. It’s easier for him to skirt around things and for people to give the benefit of the doubt when _family_ is involved.”

               “Don’t do it,” James frowned. _I don’t want it to be you in John’s place next time._

_You can’t tell me what to do. I don’t want to lose you, either._

Perhaps part of the criminal’s dilemma was that, objectively speaking, he was one of the last people on the planet who _deserved_ to have his beloved risk their life for him. Especially when the person in question was an infinitely better person than he was.

               _I’m the one considering murder,_ Sherlock pointed out.

               _I believe ‘considering’ is the key word._

The detective glared, but James decided to change the topic.

               “Thank you for being here. Instead of with John. I know he’s your…” _friend, but…_

Sherlock suddenly felt quite tired. He sat down next to James on the bed, leaning on the criminal despite his superior height.

               “He’s got Mary. Don’t couples like to be alone?”

               James inwardly flinched at the name. Mary Mary Mary. What the hell was he supposed to do about her? She’d done exactly what he’d feared, and spilled every secret about him she knew to another party, and yet, he wasn’t even sure he felt angry about it anymore. A part of him was, but those thoughts were screaming underwater. The noise was muffled, soon to be drowned.

               Obviously, he couldn’t leave the web or hand it off. So he couldn’t allow her to continue. But he doubted she’d been all too eager to expose him in the first place, if Mycroft had used any form of interrogation like what he’d experienced.

               And she couldn’t very well bite the hand that was giving her protection from her old life. So, in a sense, it almost seemed like it _wasn’t her fault._

               James got up, and Sherlock moaned, a quiet complaint.

               _Where are you going?_

_To put some real clothes on._

Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Then what?_

_I’m going to find Mary._

(o0o0o0o0)

               John had just finished shrugging on a sweater when Sebastian poked his head through the door. He was dressed in his clothing from last night—probably getting ready to leave, like the rest of them.

               “Where’s Mary at?” the sniper’s brow furrowed as he gave the room a quick once over, as if she was cleverly camouflaged, hiding behind a cheap curtain.

               “She went to grab something to eat,” John answered coolly, “Is Jim with Sherlock?”

               Sebastian shrugged, “I dunno. I’m avoiding him.”

               John wondered if the sniper expected for him to have any pity for his situation, “Are you going to lose your job?”

               “If I’m dead, I can’t work, so yeah.”

               God, he was more dramatic than Sherlock.

               “Sorry to hear that,” John said flippantly.

               Sebastian gave him a dirty look, “Why are you so superior? You should be thanking me—I’m the one who told Jim and Sherlock in the first place you were in trouble!”

               John sighed, still unmoving, “Because Mycroft told you to. You kill people for a living. Don’t expect me to believe you did this out of any kind of empathy.”

               “You know what happened to Jim’s last first in command that tried to quit after betraying Jim’s trust? She was buried _alive._ ”

               John was silent.

               “Don’t tell me that you didn’t consider how many people she must have killed.”

               “Do you feel shame?” John asked suddenly, “For the things you’ve done?”

                The room fell silent, and that was answer enough for both of them. Of course he felt nothing. It made John feel a twinge of concern for Sherlock alone with Jim, but then, they’d been over that what felt like a hundred times. At least Sherlock balanced the criminal out. This one had no one to keep him from doing anything rash; no moral compass. John was about to shake his head in disgust when the sniper’s shoulders sank.

Sebastian seemed to physically deflate in front of him. Suddenly, he looked about five years younger, wide eyed and confused and fickle.

               “I didn’t used to,” he said softly, eyes on his feet, “It was easy at first. I used to think killing was the only thing I was good at. It was fine until I met Molly and saw what happened to Mary.”

               That sounded familiar.

               Slowly, John nodded. He knew very well how strikingly easy killing could be when your target was reduced to a disembodied _thing._ It was only after being reintroduced to humanity that the true horror of it struck.

               “How’d you realize you were good at it?” John wasn’t sure he even wanted to hear the answer.

               “I ran away to join the Army,” Sebastian mumbled, and John raised his eyebrows, surprised to have anything in common with the man (boy?) in front of him.

               “You were in the-?”

               “How did you think I got so good at sniping?” Sebastian raised his eyes to meet John’s, and the doctor’s expression softened.             

               “Why did you get into crime, then?”

               “I got a DD.”

John waited, curious in spite of himself.

Sebastian frowned, “I got drunk and accidentally killed someone, okay? So where was I supposed to go? I had no high school diploma, no money, and I could shoot a gun really well.”

               John hated that he was starting to feel sorry for Moran. He didn’t deserve a single bit of sympathy.

               But then again…did any of them? All of them had killed in the past; and sometimes a uniform didn’t do much to justify the blood on it. Mary had been in Sebastian’s exact same position, a few months ago.

               Sebastian’s voice grew very quiet, “I think I might go home.”

               The doctor balked, “But didn’t you say you just ran away?”

               “I made a mistake,” Sebastian raised his voice slightly, “I talked to Jim about it. I was being a brat. And now that I’ve talked to you and Molly and everyone I can’t stop thinking about the other people I’ve killed-”

               “You talked to _Jim_ about your family life? And he gave you _advice_? He called you a _brat?_ ” That didn’t even sound like something _Sherlock_ would do, besides the name calling. What was the world coming to?

               “He’s smart,” Sebastian stared John down firmly, “You should try it.”

               John was mildly concerned about the quality of advice a consulting criminal could give about family. “…Sebastian, don’t go back to a bad home just because Jim-”

               “It wasn’t a bad home, though! I was wrong!” Sebastian exclaimed, looking about like he was ready to cry, “I miss my little sister and her stupid hair curlers and pink nail polish and magazines and shit, and I miss my mom and all that organic crap she swears by, and I miss screaming over football with my dad even though neither of us really know how the game works. I _miss_ them, and it was stupid to even try this stunt, but I feel like it’s gone too far and I’m scared that nothing will ever be the same again, or that maybe they really _do_ hate me now after what I’ve done to them.”

               John waited a moment for Sebastian’s breathing to calm down, completely frozen to the spot because right in front of him, Jim Moriarty’s 5’11” first in command looked like he was ready to cry over organic produce and lawn flamingoes.

               He was just a lost kid.

               Sebastian sniffed, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Jim’s gonna fucking kill me anyway for helping Mary.”

               John sighed heavily, “If he’s giving you family advice, he’s not going to kill you. I think being Bonded to Sherlock has softened him up.”

               “You think he’ll let me leave?” Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

               John bit his lip, thinking of Mary. About Mary, about Sherlock, or anyone else that Jim had attempted to hurt in the past.

               He ended up shrugging.

               “Would you rather live a life you hate, or risk death for the one you want?”

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian was startled when, just a few paces away from John’s hospital room, he turned a corner and very nearly crashed into his current dilemma.

               “Oh, Jesus. Sorry, Boss, I was just going to…”

               Jim raised dark eyes to meet Sebastian’s, and the sniper found, for the first time, that he was able to meet them. Reading them, however, was a completely different story.

               After a moment of silence, the criminal raised his eyebrows, “Yes?”

               Sebastian’s mouth was open, but no words were coming out. He settled for a few that had no meaning.

               “I, well…”

               “I would hope you have something important to say, after what you’ve pulled.”

               Sebastian’s face fell, “…I couldn’t let her die like that, Boss,” he said quietly.

               Jim sighed, frowning, “You’re an adult, Sebastian, and in this industry-”

               “But I don’t—I don’t know if I want to-”

               “Don’t want to _what_?” the criminal snapped.

               Sebastian looked away. Why had he thought this was a good idea again?

               Jim was incredulous, “No,” he paused, studying Sebastian, “Are you actually trying to _quit?_ ”

               Fix it. Go back to America. So yeah; quit.

               The entitlement of Jim’s tone gave Sebastian a confidence boost. He straightened up and looked him in the eye. Time to tell it like it was.

               “Look, I know that you did what you did to Mary because she quit, but I don’t care. I can’t kill for a living anymore. I miss my family. And I know this is an unforgiving business, but I also know that when Mycroft sent me to tell you guys about John, you helped Sherlock save someone you didn’t even know. And when you saw Mary you didn’t immediately lash out, either. And even though I lied to you, I never actually did any real damage to your empire. The only person who did that was Mary, and even then, it couldn’t have been a lot, because Magnussen clearly wasn’t happy with her. So I think I deserve to go home without you hurting me.”

               Jim’s jaw was practically on the floor.

               “And,” Sebastian added as an afterthought, “I think you’d probably rather talk about philosophy or something with your…boyfriend, than spend your evening plotting my death. So,” Sebastian nodded to himself, satisfied, “there. I’m quitting, and you can find yourself a new favorite.”

               Jim’s face was a study in personal offense as he watched Sebastian go.

               “Do you know how many people would _kill_ to have your position, Sebastian? Do you know how many people _I’ve_ killed for smaller infractions?”

               “Don’t know,” Sebastian had an insane urge to giggle as he continued to walk away, “Don’t care!”

               “Sebastian!” Jim’s voice was even more filled with disbelief than before as he called after the sniper, who kept walking.

               “Sebastian?!”

               Left, right, left. 

               “Sebastian.” The last call was spoken rather than shouted, but was also physically closer. Jim had followed him. The sniper slowed his steps, allowing Jim to catch up completely. Slowly, he turned around.

               Now it was Jim’s turn to stammer.

               “I’m not,” his forehead creased, like he was thinking, “I’m not going to fucking kill you,” he paused, his stare going blank, “It’s probably for the best.”

               “I won’t tell anyone anything-”

               “I’m sure you won’t,” Jim held up a hand, interrupting him, “What convinced you to go?”

               “I-”

               “Sebastian,” the criminal stared him directly in the face, and the sniper, for a brief, mad moment, wondered what on Earth Holmes must see in those fathomless black eyes. “What convinced you to go?”

               The sniper couldn’t help it, “I was talking to John and-”

               “I trust you have enough funds to carry you home,” Jim, to Sebastian’s horror, was already walking away.

               “Boss, don’t-!”

               “It’s Jim now, and I most certainly will!”

(o0o0o0o0)

               “Speak of the devil.”

               James just barely caught Watson’s quiet utterance when he pushed open the door. Wonderful. So that was how it was going to be. John was already on the defensive, muscles tensed at the ready, the tremor in his hand calmed. It was still shocking to the criminal that he caused the same psychological reaction armed combat did.

               _All factors considered,_ Sherlock chided softly, _not that shocking._

               _Hmph._

               “I caught that, you know,” he decided to call John out on his little comment.

               The doctor watched him with cool blue eyes, “Hurt your feelings, did I?”

               James stared. He felt…drained. Getting into a fight with Watson was the last thing he wanted to do. Any other day, he’d have bit at the bait without a second thought, but now he only had a taste for answers.

               John sighed deeply, looking away, “Alright,” he said quietly, as if to himself, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”

               “You took my sniper from me, you’re dating the woman who betrayed me…one would _think_ you’d want to at least _try_ to stay on my good side,” James warned gently.

               John smiled infuriatingly, shaking his head, “Oh, no. I don’t care about being on your good side.”

               James was running out of patience, “I never _wanted_ to be Bonded with Sherlock, Watson.”

               The doctor looked like he wanted to stand up from where he sat, but was holding himself in the chair merely by his two white knuckled hands.

               He met James’s eyes again, gaze almost unnervingly steady, “Why then?” he demanded, “Why the hell were the two of you on the rooftop that day? Why shake hands in the first place? You strapped me to a bomb, you damn near ruined Sherlock’s reputation, so how could you two be…?” he trailed off, and the room fell into silence once more.

               James felt quite naked. It felt a bit twisted that he was telling John about this before Sherlock, but perhaps it was good practice.             

               He closed the door behind him, sighing heavily, wondering if he still looked hostile to the doctor. Probably.

               James licked his lips, heart pounding as he unlocked a mental doorway.

               _Don’t look yet, don’t listen,_ he requested silently, _We’ll talk about it later._

 _Alright,_ Sherlock agreed.

               “I brought a gun, John.”

               The doctor tensed, “To shoot Sherl-?”

               “No,” James raised his voice slightly, “No.”

               _Oh..._ Sherlock had listened anyway, and silently chided himself when James noticed.

               Realization dawned on John’s face, “For yourself.” He kept his expression mostly neutral.

               “I wanted to shake his hand,” James hated how his voice caught, “I was already thinking about it, right before we Bonded. It was there in my pocket. And I was so close,” he shook his head, “I was so close, and he didn’t even notice I shook with my right hand.”

               John breathed, “Well, he misses things when he gets flustered.”

               The statement was surprisingly gentle. James let it wash over him like cool water.

               “So you wanted to die, and Sherlock-?” John prompted.

               “We were both supposed to die,” James confirmed, “That was the final problem.”

               John shook his head, looking quite pained, “Tell me you know how twisted that is.”

               James wished he could say that much, but he couldn’t pretend his old logic hadn’t made sense, in the context. He was still quite unsure about it, himself.

               “We get bored, John,” he said softly, “I thought it was the perfect way to end the game. So that nothing would be tainted by anything ordinary.”

               It took a moment of staring, eyes wide, for John to speak again.

               “You can sit down, you know.”

               James obliged, pulling up a chair to sit across from the doctor. He was vaguely reminded of a certain meeting with Sherlock, though that one hadn’t hurt so much.

               “I’m not going to apologize, you know,” James said moodily, playing with his sleeve.

               John was perplexed, “Do you _understand_ the things you do? I mean, that they hurt _real people?_ ”

               “Of course I understand,” James glared, “And it’s made everything more complicated.”

               “I thought you wanted complicated.”

               Oh, that was fucking clever. James hated that it was clever, and that John probably didn’t even know _how_ clever it was. Because that was exactly what the criminal didn’t want to think about.

               “Alright,” John continued, “What about all that old stuff with Sherlock? Is that gone, now? You’re done wanting him dead, his reputation ruined? Or do you still-”

               “Of course it’s over!” James snapped, raising his voice just a tad too loud. He didn’t miss John’s flinch. He hated that it pacified him. “Yes,” he hissed, “It’s over.”

               “So you don’t hate him?”

               James rubbed his temples, “I don’t think,” he mused, “I ever hated him. I don’t think any reality exists in which we aren’t Bonded, on some level or another. He was an adversary. That doesn’t mean I hated him. I just…” he trailed off, unable to find the words he wanted.

               Because, at some level, he’d always cared for Sherlock. He truly had. The fact that he’d been so bloody stupid about it wasn’t one he was overeager to confess to Watson.

               John sighed, “Maybe I’m too ordinary to understand,” he said curtly, “Have you two at least talked it over?”

               James bit his lip, “On the agenda…” he muttered.

               “Oh my God!” John exclaimed, making James jump a bit before he realized that John was smiling, actually _smiling_ , at him. “You know, this is _exactly_ what I’d expect from Sherlock, too. You’re Bonded and you haven’t even talked about the fact that you’ve tried to kill each other in the past?”

               A smirk quirked up a corner of James’s lips, “It, ah,” he looked away, “didn’t seem important.”

               “Incredible,” John laughed, but the noise lacked a bit of warmth. “Well, I don’t forgive you, and I probably never will, for the Semtex.”

               James met the doctor’s eyes again, half heartedly smirking, “Understandable.”

               “But I suppose I’ll have to get used to seeing you around, so I think I can handle one more murderer amongst my daily companions.”

               “Who did Sherlock kill?” James asked the question to Sherlock as much as John.

               _No one._

“I don’t know,” John teased, “You tell me. I’ve always wondered about his skull.”

               James broke into a full grin, “Gift from Molly.”

               “I’m sure.”

               The criminal stood to go, actually feeling considerably better than he had when he’d showed up.

               “Oh, and, uh, Jim?”

               James raised his eyebrows.

               “Sherlock told me you were with him at the bonfire. Why?”

               He had no answer for that. Maybe even the devil felt like being a hero sometimes.

               _The devil is a fictional character invented by religious leaders to coerce their followers into adhering to a certain lifestyle._

_Do you mind?_

_Don’t tell me what to do._

Shit, Sherlock was upset. Better see what that was about.

               “Your face just changed,” John observed.

               “Sherlock’s unhappy,” James voiced, “And to answer your question, it just felt right at the time. I don’t have an answer for you. It wasn’t me that put you there, I can tell you that much.”

               “I know, Mary told me.”

               Oh.

               James frowned. Dammit, he was barely upset with her anymore. The only person he could muster the energy to antagonize was _Magnussen_ , for Christ’s sake.

               Strangely, he didn’t mind it. It was nice not having to shoulder the world on his own, for once. Nice to have a few people he could trust, even though their minds worked ridiculously slow.

               “Will you let her live? Please? Leave her alone?” John asked, surprisingly vulnerable.

               He cared for her. Truly cared. James wondered how similar their feelings were to his and Sherlock’s.

               If that was even a possibility, he didn’t have much of a choice in answers.

               “Of course.”

               When James left, his eyes met another pair in the hallway. Grey, defiant, they reminded him of why he’d hired them in the first place. Jo was tensed, watching him carefully, like a zebra watches a lion.

               He continued to walk past Mary, a woman he had no quarrel with.

(o0o0o0o0)

               The air was cold on James’s face when he stepped out onto the rooftop. His eyes immediately found Sherlock, who was stretched out with his back against a wall, huddled against the chill.

               James silently sat down next to the detective, who proceeded to hand him an orange.

               _They didn’t have apples._

The criminal would have chuckled, had the both of them not been in such a grim mood. He gratefully took the fruit, stomach rumbling, though he knew that peeling an orange in the cold was going to be a task he wasn’t sure he could complete.

               Sherlock dug his nails into his own orange, and the acidic smell of citrus entered the air, fainter than usual due to the breeze.

               “The gun,” the detective muttered ruefully, “I should have known. I knew you were lefthanded, I knew you had a deathwish. You shook with the wrong hand and I didn’t bloody notice a thing.”

               “Didn’t have much time to notice.”

               “I should have!” Sherlock’s frustration was mounting by the second, “I should have. I was an idiot.”

               James sighed deeply, “Sherlock, I was trying to get _you_ to kill yourself. Do you _honestly_ believe I deserve any kind of sympathy for-?”

               “Do you still-?” Sherlock interrupted with the beginnings of a question, “I’d…know, right?”

               “Yes,” James breathed, “You’d know.”

               It was Sherlock’s turn to sigh. The thought that he could be a reason for anyone to live made his head hurt a little bit.

He started to peel his orange, and James watched his fingers move for a bit before speaking again.

               “Don’t go after Magnussen,” James said suddenly.

               Sherlock kept his eyes on the fruit in his hands, “Wasn’t planning on-”

               “I can _read your mind_ , doofus. I know what you want to do.” _You stupid hero._

               For a moment there was no sound but traffic and the wind.

               “You said it yourself, people like him don’t give up,” Sherlock argued.

               “Sherlock-”

               “I’m taller and heavier than you. And I’m certified in boxing.”

               _That_ made James smirk, just a little bit. Sherlock’s memories of receiving that certification were quite…colorful.

               The thought that initially crossed the criminal’s mind was, _What am I going to do with you?_ , but the words that he voiced were edited to fit circumstance.

               As tantalizing as mutual destruction had been…it was nothing compared to what he had now. As fucking _infuriating_ as Sherlock and the feelings that came with him could be, as ridiculous and childish as Moran could behave, as petty as John could be and as unpunished as Mary was…they gave the world color. James no longer saw the world in shades of grey and red, and it was all because of the silver on his palm.

               He understood why John had been angry about the Semtex. And why Sebastian had to leave. And why Sherlock had needed to rescue John. Why Mary had wanted to leave and why Sebastian hadn’t been able to stomach her execution. Why Mycroft worried about his brother.

               _This_ was why people commissioned him. Why the world was filled with people blinded by emotions and unable to see reason. People lost their minds over _this._

               But if it meant he could see color, if it meant he could _feel,_ James would gladly, without hesitation, follow Sherlock to insanity.

               “What would I do without you?”

               Sherlock reached around James, and the criminal bent his arm at the elbow, awkwardly reaching towards his shoulder where the detective’s hand waited.

               Silver touched silver, a silent comment that no matter what the past had been, no matter what the future would be, at present they were sitting on a rooftop, overlooking a grey London winter, and they were in love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s late late late. I’m starting school, but I think for the sake of my mental health I need to keep writing. Plus, we’re reaching near the end here. Just a few more chapters. Leave me a comment on what you thought? I for one am quite happy that John and James finally made up.


	37. Umbra

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for Magnussen being ableist and general trash.

               “It’s not like the movies, there’s not a great spurt of blood and you go flying backwards.”

               Molly’s voice was ringing in his skull, oddly cheerful despite the fact that Sherlock, moments ago, had been shot.

               Everything around him was sterile while; Molly stood in front of him in a lab coat, still watching him, her face more serious now.

               “The impact isn’t spread over a wide area. It’s tightly focused, so there’s little to no energy transfer. You stay still, and the bullet pushes through.”

               Sherlock felt naked. He could vaguely feel warmth spreading across his chest, he knew it was a dire situation, but he couldn’t muster the energy for a mental state above the severe disorientation he was currently experiencing. His every muscle was tensed, and the pain was excruciating, but it felt like a hole had been ripped through him in more ways than one. He needed someone other than Molly.

               “You’re almost certainly going to die, so we need to focus.”

               Where was James? Christ, the last time Sherlock had wanted the criminal close this bad had been before—

               “I said-”

               _“SHERLOCK!”_

James.

               “- _focus!_ ”

               The detective was left reeling from the slap across the face. He was flashing in and out of reality, the eyes in front of him now a deep, dark brown. The James in front of him was clean cut, devilishly sharp in a perfectly tailored Westwood suit, his hair slicked back without a strand out of place. The other James was not so pleasant; swaying slightly in Sherlock’s view. Wild eyed and desperate, face sheet white with hands that trembled. His expression was a plea; for what, Sherlock wasn’t sure. All he was sure of was that he wanted the criminal to stay close to him.

               “Sherlock, you need to fall back,” Molly’s voice was back, clearer this time.

               _“Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock, stay with me. That’s it. Sherl, listen to me.”_

Sherlock was getting confused. Too much information. Too many faces. James’s thoughts were scrambled with panic and they were scrambling his, as well. He was being peppered by frantic kisses.

               “Fall back.”

               _“Answer me.”_

               “Fall back.”

               _“Sherlock? SHERLOCK?”_ hands grasped his clothing, feeling his face and his hair, as if they could tug him away from the blackness he was quickly descending down into. _“God, no.”_

Suddenly, James’s pulse, his emotions, his entire conscious spiked with anger. A white hot, monstrous thing, precise and lethal, which focused Sherlock’s thoughts for long enough that he was finally capable of obeying Molly’s command.

               He fell back, completely unconscious.

(o0o0o0o0)

**Before**

               The hardest thing about this, Sherlock theorized, was cutting James off mentally.  

               Of course, the rest of the procedure was going to pose a challenge or two, but nothing caused Sherlock greater discomfort than going back to the forced separation he and the criminal had put into practice, so long ago. He’d grown so used to James’s constant, silent presence that going without it felt like showing up at a case shirtless. He felt exposed and surprisingly uncomfortable; the idea of simply going back to immediate contact was nothing short of mouthwatering, but he needed to do this. For the both of them. Then, afterwards, it would be smooth sailing, and it wouldn’t matter how dependent he became on their connection.

               Obviously, he couldn’t kill Magnussen with James in his head the entire time. Not when the criminal was so opposed to him going. And it wasn’t as though they could have gone together, even if they’d both wanted to. If Magnussen had bodyguards, and he got his hands on James, there was no telling what he would do to the criminal to create his ultimate story. At least this way, there was the possibility of calling on Mycroft to pull strings. It was easier to make excuses for a rash little brother than his criminal boyfriend.          

               Boyfriend. What a trivial word to describe James Moriarty. And yet, the same descriptor applied to him, didn’t it? What other word was there to use when Sherlock had watched James sleep, carefully keeping his thoughts calm so as not to wake him, for no less than half an hour, before he’d left that night?

               He wondered how angry the criminal would be once he found out Sir Boast a Lot was chasing dragons again. Surprisingly, James was still fast asleep. Perhaps that was due to the fact that Sherlock had put so many mental blocks up. It was good to know, he supposed, for when he got back. They might not have to coordinate their sleep schedules, after all.

               Although…Sherlock really didn’t mind that, too much.

               The streets of London were shadowed as he walked, small flashes of James’s dreams making themselves seen, despite the detective’s walls. Sherlock caught a few blurry glimpses of himself, Sebastian, and even Mary.

               A hot flash of anger heated his skin at what Magnussen had almost ruined—would ruin, if he had the chance. Sherlock checked his pocket to make sure what he needed was still there.

               His glove touched a small glass vial, and the detective, mortifyingly, felt a small smirk tease his lips.

               John would be disappointed in him, possibly afraid of him. He might think James _had_ had a poor effect on him, after all. The criminal himself would be furious that Sherlock had gone without him, but what else was there to be done? Mycroft would roll his eyes and pull some strings for baby brother as usual and things would be cleaned up, easy.

               Sherlock felt a tiny bit guilty, more for the accidental smile than anything else. This wasn’t something to be taken so lightly. This was the man who wanted to ruin James. Ruin _them_. And in spite of his blinding love for the criminal, Sherlock couldn’t completely move past the fact that he was on the streets in the middle of the night, poison in pocket, intending to kill someone.

               _Magnussen is a grown Carl Powers_ , he told himself, _he finds what makes people different and preys on them for it._

Coat billowing out behind him, Sherlock continued his silent journey, blending into the shadows like a wraith. His collar provided little relief from the cold.

               He wished James was here with him. The silence was a bit lonely.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Magnussen’s home certainly was a castle for a dragon. To say the very least, it was massive. It gleamed dangerously in the low light, every wall made of massive windows that Sherlock was sure did a fantastic job of capturing heat during the daytime. The bastard’s monthly electric bill was probably more than what 221B cost him and John in an entire year.

               James was sleeping more fitfully now; he’d probably noticed the lack of Sherlock’s conscious in his dreams. He’d be waking up soon, so it was better that this operation was hurried along. Killing Magnussen would be more difficult if James was nagging him the entire time.

               Sherlock gave the night sky one last glance, taking a moment to find Ursa Major before turning back to the house.

               He hadn’t been able to look at blueprints without James seeing, so he’d have to find a way in from here. The windows were likely extremely thick, so simply breaking one wasn’t an option, especially given how suspicious it would look. No, he needed something that wouldn’t mean setting off a security system, something that would get him into the interior of the house quickly and easily.

               Suddenly, a memory pushed itself to the forefront of Sherlock’s mind. He remembered the way James’s hair had been stuck to his face with sweat, how the metal had burned their skin as they crawled, unscrewing the air vent and rescrewing it behind them.

               Christ. Of course this would happen again. But it was as good of a bloody plan as he was going to get. Big house like this would likely have larger airways to crawl through, allowing him to reduce noise considerably. Perhaps then, also, they wouldn’t get so hot so quickly.

               Although…it was quite cold out. Hopefully Magnussen liked his surroundings as cold as his heart, or else things were about to get a tad warm.

               Sherlock started off towards the house, keeping his eyes out for any type of cameras or security equipment. The ground underneath his feet was frozen solid, icy and dead. He was grateful, however, for the lack of snow at the moment. No footprints was definitely a good thing. This would have been considerably more difficult if he hadn’t been awarded that small mercy.

               The shadows engulfed him when he made it, thankfully, to the corner of the home without windows. Hopefully, this was the living quarters; he assumed the more elegant part of the building was more of a formal sitting room—fantastic for gatherings, useless for everyday life. Unless Magnussen needed to take his tea on a sofa that cost 20 thousand pounds.

               Keeping his back to the wall of the home, Sherlock turned his attention to his ears. The wind was harsh, blocking out almost everything else when it howled. He was grateful for the structure of the house to protect him against it and, in spite of himself, he almost was looking forward to the long, warm crawl through the vents.

               He wished he was home with James, who was still, miraculously, asleep in bed.

               The wind let up and, to his left, Sherlock heard a slight humming. Good. Where there were other appliances, there would be a way in. The detective followed the noise until his hand brushed against something metallic. Slowly, he turned, feeling around in the darkness to get an idea of how large the grate was.

               Large. Almost a meter on each side. Perfect.

               Sherlock felt along the edges for bolts, and when his fingers located them, started to work. Finding the notches to insert the small, silver spoon he’d taken with him (screwdriver would be too suspicious in case he dropped it, but a stray spoon in a kitchen drawer wouldn’t be) was difficult, but ultimately doable. Finally, the detective silently pulled the loose grate up against the wall behind him. He’d find a faster way out and would have to re-screw it by hand.

               The metal walls around him were warm, as predicted, but not nearly as uncomfortably warm as they had been when he and James had escaped Mycroft’s cabin. Sherlock wondered how much of that had been temperature and how much had been the Bond they’d been resisting for so long. He could still remember how James’s hair had stuck to his face, how his face had been flushed red, his pupils dilated in the darkness. He’d wondered, then, if the criminal would look similarly in other compromising positions, and it was satisfying to know that he could now confirm this…

               _Fuck, Sherl…_ James’s thoughts were a murmur. He was half conscious, and _dammit_ , Sherlock needed to get back to blocking him, but it was _so_ difficult when the criminal was deriving just as much pleasure from the memory as he was.

               Sherlock continued to crawl, feeling like a rat in a sewer. Perhaps…James’s company wasn’t a terrible thing, in such a dire situation as this.

               _Hush. Go back to sleep,_ the detective coaxed.

               There was a moment of tense silence before Sherlock realized what a grave mistake he’d made.

               _…Sherlock?_ James asked, fully conscious.

               _Shit._

_Sherlock?!_

_I can explain._

_You went after him, didn’t you?_ James’s words were hot with fury, and Sherlock realized that he was sweating more, now. However, he saw another grate several meters in front of him, and decided he would rather take his chances sneaking around the house than roasting alive in here.

               The detective didn’t answer James.

               _Fuck. Fucking shit, I knew you would! You’ve always got to be the hero, don’t you? And why are you thinking about sex with me when you should be watching for Magnussen?_

Sherlock was indignant, _I was not thinking about sex; this just reminded me of escaping Mycroft!_

James was unmoved, _Don’t think sentiment will get you anywhere now. You clearly were blocking me and lost control. I can’t believe you went without me!_

Bolts squeaked as Sherlock twisted them out of the grate, making him wince. At this hour, in a large, open house like this, the smallest of noises may as well have been a gunshot.

               The detective bit his lip, _Mycroft can defend me. He can’t defend you. We’ve been over—_

_Fuck that!_

Sherlock balked at the irrational response.

               _You’re letting your emotions—_

 _Fuck it, Sherlock! Yes, I am!_ to the detective’s horror, James seemed about ready to cry. The criminal’s heartrate was accelerated with worry and panic, an anxious tremor in his every thought, _I’m being irrational. I don’t care about logic right now, I just wish I was there!_

The squeaking stopped, and Sherlock bowed his head, _I’m…sorry? I thought you wanted him stopped._

_I do, but not like this. He’s not stupid, Sherlock. And I know you’ve thought of everything, but what if he has, too?_

_I’ll think of something else, then._

There was a long, stagnant silence.

               _I love you._

Sherlock wished, almost prayed, that James’s words wouldn’t twist in his chest the way they did. Apparently, there wasn’t a star in heaven listening.

               _James—_

_Just…please be careful. I’ll try to help and not hinder._

_I love you, too._

_Just come home alive so I can kill you myself, alright?_

While declarations of love twisted in Sherlock’s chest, it was that kind of thing the detective had really been afraid of James saying. The joke seemed to inject itself into his veins, crushing the air from his lungs and forcing him to pause with the realization that…this could be goodbye, if things went awry. Of course, they wouldn’t, with James here to help him. Most of this worry probably just came from the criminal’s own thoughts, but… _if…._

               _Now who’s being emotional?_ James snapped Sherlock out of his reverie, though it was still very obvious to the detective that he was nervous about the whole situation, _Start moving._

 _I’ve got the man who stole the crown jewels to help me,_ Sherlock attempted to lighten the mood, _I don’t believe I have much to worry about._

James presented a rather heavy thought just as the detective started to move the vent aside.

               _You don’t, I do._

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sherlock was even more astounded at the sheer size of Magnussen’s abode now than he was upon first seeing it. It didn’t even look like a house to him; there was too much open space. Perhaps a museum or a rather elaborate office building. Everything was so _clean_ and sterile…it almost didn’t seem like anyone lived there at all.

               Stepping carefully through the shadows, the detective’s vision was heightened, his every muscle tensed and all of his nerves concentrated on his surroundings. After doing a quick check to ensure he wasn’t about to run into a security system of any sort, Sherlock started off to find the kitchen. While the detective was a fraction less on edge, James still held his breath, silently going over and approving every deduction as it was made.

               Magnussen had a large selection of plants filling the bottom floor of his home, but Sherlock didn’t derive any comfort from the confirmation that something, anything, could live in this place. In the darkness, their leaves appeared black, and from where he stood, they looked like obsidian statues. He wondered if whoever took care of them was somewhere around here, tending them at night so as not to be in the way during daytime hours.

               _He’s got too many enemies; he wouldn’t want anyone, not even someone neutral, to be here while he slept,_ James declared, _Wait, stop!_

Sherlock’s pulse spiked, and he froze in his steps, heart hammering.

               _On your right._

Slowly, ever so slowly, the detective turned. There on the wall, a meter or so from where he stood, was a small box. A tiny light blinked on it.  

               Sherlock sighed, grinning weakly with surprisingly intense relief.

 _Thermostat,_ he confirmed, able to see a clean 20 degrees, faded on a small screen.

               James wasn’t so relieved, _I’m just going off of flashes._ He sounded less indignant at the lack of recognition his efforts were getting, and more frustrated that they weren’t enough.

              Starting to be more assured that the night would go as planned, Sherlock confidently walked past the thermostat, and did a silent cheer when he saw the gleam of what looked like stainless steel through a corridor to his left.

 _Found the kitchen,_ the triumphant detective bragged, hating that he wanted James to compliment him. He wanted the napoleon of crime to encourage him to do the wicked thing he was about to do and to eliminate the man who’d tried to tear them apart.

 _Stop,_ James wasn’t swayed, _Sherlock, this is serious._

 _Don’t pretend you aren’t impressed,_ Sherlock slipped the spoon he’d used to unscrew the grates into a crowded silverware drawer. The metal gleamed in what little light filtered into the room, tinkling slightly as the detective hid it from sight again.

             A part of him knew he was being bloody stupid, that he was about to kill a man and he ought to at least be sobered by the act, even if Magnussen didn’t deserve the least bit of respect, but he couldn’t stop himself.

             James was feeling sick to his stomach, _Sherlock, please be careful. We can do this when you’re home safely._

             Sherlock smirked, _Don’t tell me the danger is too much for the criminal mastermind? Did you like the toxin I chose?_

 _Of course I did, but this is your weakness,_ James insisted, _You have to be clever all the time. Just once, for me, will you be conservative and just watch your-?_

 _Are you driving?_ Sherlock asked suddenly, ears ringing.

            James’s silence was enough of an answer, and suddenly it was the detective’s turn to be angry.

_Turn around! I’m going to handle this. Good God, when did you get so boring?_

_I’m not technically driving,_ the criminal admitted ominously, fraying Sherlock’s nerves even more. Of course _now_ , James chose to be cryptic.

_Who’d you bring?_

_If you ever listened, you’d know!_

          Sherlock flushed, a flash of silver going through the Bond.

_Lestrade? Are you kidding me?_

_John, too. Look, they don’t know, alright? I just told them I needed them to come with me to make sure you’re alright. They don’t even know where we’re going. They don’t even know I know._

_Of course they bloody know! They’ll guess, and then we’ll both be in prison with this maniac to deal with when we get out!_

_I just wanted to keep you safe!_

_God, now you’re sounding like John,_ Sherlock’s head was pounding.

_And you’re sounding like a pompous arse. Do you have any idea how much I care about you? Does that even matter to you? Or is this all still just a game?_

          Sherlock knew the words weren’t true to how he felt, but he said them anyway, _I told you I loved you, what more do you want?_

_I want to keep loving you, that’s what!_

_Well what_ I _want is—_

          The tiniest of movements in the corner of his eye froze Sherlock and James’s thoughts, shattering them like ice. The detective felt his stomach drop, the air again stolen from his lungs, and it struck him that most of the reason he felt this was not because he was frightened, but because James was. So intense was this effect that, in the car, John Watson actually asked the pale criminal if he was alright. James didn’t know how to answer.

          Sherlock stared at the archway he’d seen the movement by, heart thumping and muscles tensed.

 _Sherlock?_ James’s thoughts were softened in volume, if not in tone.

_Hush. I’m going to go look._

          The detective grabbed a knife out of a nearby stand. The sheen of the blade in the darkness made him feel more like a murderer than he had anytime so far that night.

               Foot by foot, he made his way towards the arch. His palm was sweating around the knife, and James’s voice echoed in his head, muffled as though underwater.

               _“There’s someone there with him,”_ the criminal updated Lestrade and John.

               Sherlock flattened himself against the wall, readying himself to round the corner. Just before he could, however, there was a rapid clacking of heels, heading to his left.

               The detective practically leapt into the hallway. _Heels, she’s a woman and she’s running. Mistress, perhaps?_ _Who would be here otherwise?_

The hall was empty and silent as the grave. Sherlock frowned, and James voiced exactly what he was thinking.

               _Something is wrong._

Indeed, it was. He hadn’t even thought about it until this point, but there was something off about the fact that he hadn’t encountered any kind of security all night. Magnussen had many enemies; the idea that he would have absolutely no protection at night, while he slept, in the form of a system or bodyguards or _something_ , was outrageous. It was laughable.

               No, what was laughable was that Sherlock had overlooked it in his eagerness to run off with James and rid themselves of all their worries.

               “He knows I’m here,” the detective, resigned, murmured to himself.

               A light flicked on in the kitchen, and a terribly familiar voice called to Sherlock.

               “Love doesn’t suit you, Sherlock Holmes,” said Kitty Riley.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Disgust flooded through the detective as he turned back into the kitchen; he wasn’t sure how much of it was his own and how much belonged to James.

               _I thought she worked for you?_

_She worked for Richard Brooke._

_She’d only be here if she knew the truth about you. Why isn’t she afraid?_

_We both know the answer to that. We’re Bonded. I’m just a person now._

A smirk twisted Kitty’s perfectly glossed mouth as she regarded Sherlock, “Are you talking to him now? Give James my regards.”

               The criminal’s temper flared at her boldness, and Sherlock’s lip curled as he regarded the journalist, “You haven’t the faintest idea what James Moriarty can do to you, do you?”

               Kitty’s grin widened, “Oh, Sherlock,” she took a leisurely step towards him, and Sherlock took notice of how fragile her ankles looked in those heels, “I think he hasn’t the faintest idea what Charles can do to him. But I will say, you make a great couple. I always knew you were a psychopath. Just take a look at yourself.”

               In spite of himself, Sherlock turned to look at his reflection in an oven door. His hair was disheveled, the knife was still in his hand, all his muscles were clearly tensed…perhaps he did look a bit mad.

               _Don’t listen to that cunt._

Sherlock ignored James, turning back to Kitty.

               “You knew I was coming. How?”

               “Hospital cameras. And we’ve got more than your plans for the night.”

               Sherlock’s lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes narrowed, “We…?”

               “Mr. Holmes, you didn’t think Kitty was capable of this all on her own, did you?”

               Magnussen’s familiar coo sent a disgusted chill down Sherlock’s spine. Kitty seemed at most irritated by the slight, at least unfazed. Sherlock was outnumbered, and they knew it. One of them on either side of him was a bit much when all he had was a knife and (was that? it was) Magnussen had a gun. Kitty was a bit more intelligent than that misogynist would give her credit for—she could testify against him if he went through with the plan to kill her newest employer. And it wasn’t as though Sherlock could, or would, kill her. He couldn’t do it, as much as he hated her.

               James’s heart sank, as did Sherlock’s.

               _Just work with it. We’ll be there soon and we can figure it out. Just keep thinking. Don’t do anything rash._

_I’ll go to prison. He has Mycroft’s hands tied. They have footage. Of us. Likely of me with a knife in Magnussen’s home. I was a fool to believe he had this little security._

_Darling, it’s entirely likely we’ll both be in prison._

_They’ll make us out to be dangerous. They’ll separate us,_ Sherlock started to panic at the thought. They couldn’t let that happen. _He_ couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t live without the Bond. He couldn’t live without James. Without each other, they were nothing.

_Just wait. You did what you did out of love._

_And now they’re going to take it away._

_Over my dead body._

_Please don’t say that,_ Sherlock thought miserably. Separation, which they’d begun to dismiss as but a nightmare, once Mycroft had given his blessing, suddenly seemed a very real, very terrible possibility once more. If the public had a low enough opinion of him and James, if Magnussen got in the way of any influence Mycroft had…they were left to the government to deal with. And the amoral detective with body parts in the fridge and the world’s most dangerous criminal mastermind weren’t exactly going to be a winning couple.

             They’d be separated without a thought. Without remorse. Sherlock ached for James. He had a very clear vision in his mind of clinging to the criminal with all his strength as hands all over him tried to pull him away, harder and harder, but Sherlock’s knuckles whitened and he let his hair be pulled out, because this couldn’t happen, he had to _stay close…_

             “Are you talking to him now?” Magnussen regarded him from behind spectacles Sherlock wanted to break, “Your lover?”

             The detective gripped the knife tighter. For the first time in a long time, he was nervous. Now the feeling hit him full force, creating a sensation almost like nausea. It would have been nice to have something, anything like a retort for Magnussen, but any possible quip he could think of sounded weak before he even spoke it.

               “Kitty,” Sherlock turned back around to face the journalist, “He doesn’t respect you, he—”

               She laughed before he could finish his appeal, “And you did? You took one look at me and labeled me a washed up fangirl masquerading as a journalist. Jim pretended to be a character for me. At least Magnussen treats me like a businesswoman.”

               As much as Sherlock loathed them both, it was difficult to resent Kitty quite as much as Magnussen when he was regarding her as a dog did a fresh steak.

               “Holmes, I’m disappointed in you,” Magnussen’s voice was soft and cruel, “You see, this is the difference between you and I,” he moved into the detective’s range of vision, “I’m honest about what I am. I’m but a man of business. I want money, but quite frankly, who doesn’t, these days? You pretend to be a hero when the reality is, you snuck into my house to kill me in my sleep with the same poison James Moriarty used on a twelve year old while he was in primary school. You tried to kill me because I threatened to expose your lover for the psychopathic serial killer he truly is.”

               _Sherlock, he’s just trying to—_ James continued to ignore the tantalizing pull of Sherlock’s anger.

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped, unsure if he wanted to cry or strangle Magnussen—probably both.

               “In fact,” Magnussen continued, “If you hadn’t come tonight, I mightn’t have published the story. But you’ve broken into my home like a common criminal, and I’m in a mood to expose to the world perhaps the greatest Bond scandal in modern British history.”

               Kitty cleared her throat.

               “And I’m certain,” Magnussen added, an afterthought, “That Kitten feels the same.”

               Kitty pressed her lips together.

               “Kitty,” Sherlock tried once more, his earnestness not even forced, “Listen to me. If James gets out of this—as he always does—he’s coming for you first, so I’d suggest you think carefully about-”

               “You’d let him murder me?” she asked, regarding him icily.

               “I-”

               “You can’t use him to threaten me anymore,” Kitty silenced the rest of his sentence before it even was fully articulated, “Your hands are tied, and so are his. We’ve got the footage, we’ve got living proof,” she gestured towards his palm, forever gleaming silver, “And you’ve been beaten, Sherlock.”

               He started towards Magnussen, tightening his grip on his weapon, “Not if I-”

               “Ah, ah, ah,” Magnussen waggled a finger, and Sherlock, in spite of himself, stopped in his tracks, “You kill me now, we’ve still got Kitten to testify. You wouldn’t kill her, now would you?”

               Sherlock wondered if he would. For a lifetime with James, it seemed a small price to pay. But of course this could be traced to him, now.

               “Famous consulting detective didn’t fabricate arch nemesis,” Magnussen crooned dreamily, “But Bonded with him. London’s murder couple, I like that.”

               “Shut up,” Sherlock wished it sounded more an order and less a plea.

               “It’s really no wonder,” Magnussen raised his eyebrows thoughtfully, “You kept the body parts in the fridge, everyone thought you were a bit off. And now you’re dating the sadistic serial killer. Blows people up for fun. I’m sure he makes your heart pound in more ways than one…”

               Sherlock flushed, “It’s not like that. We had no control over what happened. We didn’t want it at first.”

               “Oh, but you _had_ to give into temptation,” Magnussen gushed, “And with the footage we’ve got of you nuzzled up with Mr. Moriarty on the rooftop, I’d say once you gave in, you went the whole hog.”

               Sherlock went bright red at the thought of what they’d done that night, half from embarrassment and half from fury. That had been private. It had been part of a personal, private romance and it was absolutely no one’s business but his and James’s.

               “Never took you for the dominant type, but, sometimes that catches people off guard…”

               _Hang in there,_ James urged. Magnussen’s talk was starting to get to him, as well.

               Sherlock didn’t bother responding to either of them. He just stood there and took it.

               “But to go for tragedy or horror?” Magnussen mused, “At this point, I’d say it’s more likely a horror story than anything else. The hero, the private detective that’s saved countless lives, Bonds to the most evil man in London…and accepts it. Gladly. The true character of people is shocking to realize, sometimes.”

               “James Moriarty is not the most evil man in London,” Sherlock spat. By God, he wasn’t the kindest, either. Neither was he remotely even moral but…all of those things were subjective. All Sherlock could think about was James’s laugh and the way his eyes lit up when he was happy. Surely all that couldn’t mean nothing, just because he’d killed? Sherlock had never pretended to be moral himself, so the fact that this should come as such a shock to anyone was a shock to him.

               Well, no it wasn’t. People refused to think about anything they were remotely uncomfortable with.

               Kitty half gasped, half laughed, “ _Not_ the most evil man in London? He’s certainly killed more than anyone else! He kills because it’s fun; how is that not evil, to you?”

               “Oh, I see,” infuriatingly, Magnussen chuckled, “He thinks _I’m_ the most evil man in London. Because I broke his fantasy.”

               “Nothing is broken,” Sherlock countered, “Not yet.”

               “Is that a threat?” Kitty raised her eyebrows, “Christ, you’re further gone than I’d thought.”

               “We just want to be left alone,” Sherlock said tiredly.

               _Sherl, don’t bother, they’re stupid._

“You don’t actually think he cares about you, do you?” Kitty demanded, watching him with a sort of morbid fascination, “What’s it like to be in that head?”

               “If he didn’t care, I wouldn’t be here,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

               “You don’t even realize how truly mad the both of you are,” Magnussen marveled, and, to the detective’s dismay, Kitty seemed to be eating it up. She nodded solemnly.

               “I agree. How can you hear a murderer’s thoughts, day in and day out, and end up loving them?” she wondered aloud.

               _Sherlock, you don’t have to explain to them—_

But he did. There were a thousand reasons why Sherlock loved James; why he was willing to overlook the fact that he’d been Moriarty’s target more than anyone else. He loved that James loved him. He loved the ease of conversation between them. He loved being seen as an equal, neither a freak nor a god among men. He loved being Sherlock, not Sherlock Holmes. He loved the quiet nights as much as he loved the adrenaline rushes, the gentle caresses as much as he loved hands pulling at his hair. He loved the petty banter as much as the deep conversation. He loved James; every part of him, including his past. That was what he loved about this—loving unconditionally and receiving nothing less in return.

               “I wouldn’t expect you,” Sherlock said simply, “To understand.”

               “He’s psychotic!” Kitty’s voice was nails on a chalkboard, “People like the that need to be locked up. And separated, so you can’t plot together.”

               “We’ll die if we’re separated,” Sherlock snapped.

               “But it’s for the best,” Magnussen drawled, looking at Sherlock with pity, “You don’t even realize what’s wrong, do you? But I believe in the greater good, and so for the greater good, dangerous people should be…taken care of.”

               “I realize what’s wrong, but it’s more complex than that. I simply-”

               “If you knew right from wrong, Mr. Holmes, you wouldn’t be sympathizing with a murderer.”

               “No, you’re not LISTENING!” Sherlock slammed his fist down on a countertop, “It’s more complicated than what you’re making it out to be.”

               “No, Mr. Holmes,” Magnussen said, his words seeming to slither off his tongue and into Sherlock’s ears, making him suppress a shiver that was two parts rage and one part disgust, “I think you’ve always been like this. You’ve always been different. You’ve always been mad, you just needed an excuse to let it out.”

               On the other side of the Bond, James’s heart pounded, the criminal himself in a sort of daze, listening but not listening.

               “Stop,” Sherlock gritted his teeth.

               “You’ve always been a psychopath,” Magnussen continued his onslaught, fraying Sherlock’s nerves more and more, “And Moriarty is the proof. People like that need to be locked up. People like you put all the rest of us in danger.”

               Sherlock’s ears were ringing, “Stop,” he growled.

               “Because deep down,” Magnussen purred, “You know you’ve always been a dangerous frea-”

               “Stop it, STOP IT NOW!” Sherlock, at the end of his threshold, took a step towards Magnussen.

               A shot rang out, seeming to freeze time. Magnussen stopped running his mouth, Sherlock’s mind stopped racing, and the room fell silent, save for the tiniest of gasps, behind the detective.

               “Oh my God…” Kitty’s voice now sounded very small and uncertain, “I, I…”

               Magnussen unfroze and slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, turned to the journalist behind Sherlock, his gaze no longer tauntingly calm but suddenly icy with rage.

               “What,” he demanded, “Have you done?”

               “I…” Kitty stammered, “He…he had the knife still and I…”

               “You _stupid_ , bloody CUNT!”

               Time unfroze, moving at what felt like twice the normal speed.

               Magnussen pushed past Sherlock to get to Kitty, whose screams to stay back were muffled to the detective’s ears, as though underwater. Just as he started to feel warm scarlet trickle down to his stomach, however, just as he was wondering why he didn’t feel any pain yet, it hit him.

               And _God,_ did it hurt.

               Not as much as it had during the first days of his Bond with James, but who the bloody hell needed a comparison? Sherlock certainly felt as though a hole had been torn through him with a piece of metal. He felt nauseous, his brain overwhelmed by what was happening around him. A dish smashed somewhere behind him, and Kitty yelped. There was muffled shouting in the distance, and it was so much, it was all so much. Sherlock’s vision was turning red, his torso worryingly warm, the pain sending so many signals to his brain at once that he did the only thing he could do—flee to his mind palace.

(o0o0o0o0)

               James couldn’t help but cry out as a violent pain ripped through his torso, his sudden exclamation in the silent car making John and Greg jump just as much as the sudden change in momentum.

               “Jesus!” Lestrade exclaimed, taking his eyes from the road for a moment to gape at the criminal, who was still reeling from the initial shock, gritting his teeth and trying not to moan.

               “James!” the name—his name—sounded strange coming from John’s mouth, but he responded nonetheless, as best as he could.

               The pain was spreading through his torso. Not enough to be lethal, he didn’t think, but he felt as though a hole had been ripped through him; as though if he put a hand to his chest, he’d feel the same wetness there that Sherlock did.

               The detective’s mind was strangely quiet, all of his panic from Magnussen’s words disappeared to be replaced by a deadly, ringing silence.

               “Sherlock’s…” James wheezed, “Sherlock’s been shot. Through the back, out the front.”

               Lestrade gave him a concerned glance, his expression weak with worry.

               “Jesus, I’ll call backup and an ambulance.”

               The criminal nodded, trying to calm his breathing.

               “Who shot him?” John Watson’s voice was like a razor’s edge, the voice of a warrior, and James found that all he could do was shake his head in response.

               His hands were trembling, his head was spinning, and _God_ , he hurt, but he couldn’t risk distancing himself from Sherlock’s mind and the pain. He needed to organize his thoughts, to stay calm for Sherlock. He needed…

               The car screeched to a stop, and James blinked dazedly at the massive structure that apparently served as a house in front of them.

               _Less pain, more Sherlock_ , James urged himself, _Less pain, more Sherlock. Distance the pain, not Sherlock._

Despite the pain he was in, James was the first one out of the car. The world around them, he knew, must have been mostly silent as they rushed into the house, save for Lestrade contacting help as they ran. However, all the criminal could hear was the ringing in his ears, making it all too obvious how quiet Sherlock was being.

               _Sherlock could die._

The idea was so abhorrent, so unthinkable, that James felt physically sick thinking of it. The pain of the gunshot times twenty could not compare to the torture of even _considering_ life without Sherlock. Not that they would have that if he died. If he died, they both went.

               _And everything we could have had, every possibility for the future, every measure taken to ensure we could spend an indefinite amount of time together, will have been for nothing._

It was, logically speaking, silly to think this could have gone on forever, but James was outraged at the idea that _logic_ even deserved a say in the matter. He loved Sherlock. Sherlock was the only thing on this Earth that had ever made him happy and to think that that could be taken away from him, not because of old age or disease or complications with a case, but because of _Magnussen_ , an ignorant, greedy bigot who wouldn’t know love if it slapped him across the face, made him feel nothing short of bloodthirsty. Or it would have, if he wasn’t having such a difficult time getting ahold of Sherlock. James’s chest physically ached for the detective, and not only because of the gunshot.

               The house passed by him in a dreamlike sequence of shadowed gardens and sharp corners, so that when they entered the cacophony of sound that was the kitchen, James felt he was waking from some kind of a trance.

               Kitty looked furious, but she was crying, cowering and surrounded by broken china that James assumed Magnussen, who stood over her like a hulking beast, had put there. She was bleeding from several cuts on her forehead and arms.

               Sherlock stood as if he’d been shot mere seconds ago, seeming to stare at something no one could see. He blindly grabbed for the counter to support himself, dropping a large knife, and James ran to him, finally finding his voice. Everyone was yelling, but only James was truly calling to anyone.

               “SHERLOCK!”

               The criminal wrapped the detective in the gentlest and most desperate of embraces, hands scrambling both to assess damage and to ensure that he hadn’t yet become a ghost. Without Sherlock, James was a ghost.

               The detective’s eyes vaguely focused on his own, and somehow, it only hurt James’s heart even more, “Sherlock? Sherlock. Sherlock, stay with me,” James begged, “That’s it. Sherl, listen to me.”

               There wasn’t much of a response, and the criminal ignored what must have been John’s firm hand on his arm. There were more dishes breaking again, and Lestrade was screaming into his phone for his backup to arrive more quickly.

               “Answer me,” James demanded, not breaking eye contact, or what he wished was true eye contact, with Sherlock, whose gaze kept fading in and out of focus.

               Horrifyingly, the detective started to lean backwards.

               “Sherlock? SHERLOCK?” James scrambled to lower the detective to the floor, his phantom gunshot wound burning as the only person he’d ever loved closed his eyes.

               _“God no,”_ James couldn’t keep his voice from cracking. He couldn’t breathe, only try to reach the unconscious Sherlock even as the Bond started to drag him under with his Soulmate.

               He was vaguely aware of John next to him, kneeling by Sherlock, trying to tell him to move so that he could properly examine the detective for vitals. James continued to cling to his love, because while John seemed almost nonexistent in the reality he was currently experiencing, Magnussen seemed to be growing brighter and brighter, still harassing Kitty, who was backed into a corner.

               Perhaps he should have sent John off to intervene, though perhaps he also had overestimated Watson’s morality. Of course he would choose his best friend over the journalist who’d helped James frame Sherlock.

               Fury at the injustice of it all reared its ugly head, a monster James hadn’t danced with in what felt like forever. Magnussen had done this. Magnussen _had_ to target them; it was what he did. He sought out the freaks of the world, just minding their own business, and put them on display like circus animals, for all of London to see. Magnussen was a bully. He was a bully and suddenly he wasn’t Magnussen at all—he was Carl Powers and he was James’s oblivious parents and he was James himself. He was everyone the criminal had ever hated, everyone he’d ever been wronged by.

               A shot rang out, and like a neutron star, his anger collapsed in on itself, leaving James with nothing but despair in his heart. He hadn’t anticipated a broken heart to feel like this; he hadn’t thought it would be this real. His heart physically _ached_ in the absence of Sherlock’s company, and he was so very, very tired suddenly.

               James, draped over Sherlock, laid his head to rest on the uninjured part of the detective’s chest, taking care just before he fell unconscious to link their palms together, leaving them as intertwined as two lovers, without a care in the world.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters left.


	38. Constellation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Christ I'm going to cry. I'm a mess. I hope you're a mess too after this.

               Sherlock was unconscious for a bit less than a day, and James right with him. John felt a bit like an intruder in the room with the two Soulmates; even when recovering from a gunshot wound together, the aura that surrounded them was an intimate one. Both of their expressions exuded a tenderness that looked foreign on their usually contemplative faces.

               John thought it worked. Never in his life would he have thought James Moriarty or Sherlock Holmes capable of true gentleness, and yet he’d seen more love in Jim’s face, cradling Sherlock’s body, than he’d seen on anyone; and he’d seen his share of men weeping over fallen mates during the war.

               So it was that he stood over the consultants, perhaps almost indecently intertwined for their current location. The fact that they were in a double bed didn’t help the feeling that they were actually home at Baker Street, and John was trying to wake them on a lazy Sunday morning.

               Greg swung into the room as if they weren’t even in a hospital, and the door shut loudly behind him. He didn’t look the slightest bit sobered at the fact that their friend was lying unconscious in bed right before their eyes. Or, semi unconscious. The nurse had finally allowed them in now that the Soulmates were supposedly waking up.

               “It’s almost inappropriate,” Lestrade shook his head, crossing his arms and throwing John a look that very clearly said, _“What are we going to do with them?”_

John raised his eyebrows, nodding, “I know.”

               Greg pulled out his phone, checked it, and shoved it back into his pocket, “Kitty might get off.”

               “I don’t care about her,” John muttered, “Are Sherlock and James going to be-?”

               Lestrade grinned.

               “No,” John returned the expression, feeling like a massive weight was being lifted from his heart, “Really? You’re kidding.”  

               Lestrade shook his head, “Turns out the bastard has made a _lot_ of enemies over the years. Surprise surprise, a lot of them are female, and Kitty’s had no trouble telling them all _this_ story. Everyone is so busy with the Magnussen scandal that no one gives a damn about Sherlock’s love life, for once.”

               John shook his head, exasperated, “Thank God for Kitty Riley.” Now _that_ was a sentence he’d never thought would leave his lips.

               The door crashed open behind them, and two more joined the party, Molly Hooper looking rather flustered and Sebastian Moran windswept and buzzing with energy. The former deposited a lovely lilac bouquet of flowers onto the small, overcrowded nightstand, having to take a moment to move another onto the floor to make room. Sebastian nonchalantly planted himself on the bed, sneezing as if all the pollen in the room had just hit his senses.

               “Not going back, then?” John was unfazed, though he did appreciate the idea of the likely exhausted consultants waking up to a very hyper Sebastian sitting on their bed. “To America?”

               Sebastian’s eyes widened, “Oh, hell no. I’m going. But I had to make sure that…” he glanced at Jim, “…you know.”

               John still didn’t know why the sniper would give a single damn about his boss when Jim had done nothing but instill fear in him for his entire employment, but perhaps it was just a testament to the true nature of his heart.

               Perhaps he wasn’t meant to be a killer. Perhaps Jim wasn’t, either. Perhaps no one was.

               Sherlock shifted, and an anticipatory hush fell over the room.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Something tickled James’s forehead when he came to. Slowly, then all at once, the events of the previous night flashed before his eyes. The excruciating pain he and Sherlock had shared after the detective had been shot, Sherlock closing his eyes, losing Sherlock, the only one who’d ever understood him, forever…

               The criminal was dimly aware of someone listening with amusement to his thoughts, and suddenly, it clicked. The heat of the body he was intertwined with, the hum of the nerves in their Marks, the lack of pain in his chest, curls against his forehead…

               _Sherlock._

James opened his eyes to find two blue ones staring at him, glittering mischievously. A small smirk teased the detective’s lips. The criminal slowly sat up, eyes wide. He hardly dared to speak the name.   

               “…Sherlock?” he breathed, hardly daring to believe it was true. Sherlock had been shot. Magnussen had been going to ruin them. Everything had gone down in flames. For a moment, there was no sound but that of their heartbeats. Finally, Sherlock opened his mouth.

               “Took you long enough,” he scoffed.

               James studied the detective in silence for a matter of seconds before he attacked him, dragging all manner of machines attached to them both along for the ride. He hauled Sherlock up by the collar.

               “Is this a joke to you?” he shrilled, shaking the mostly unfazed detective, “You could have _died_ , you doofus! _We_ could have died! Magnussen would have ruined all of this for us and…and…”

               Sherlock’s _infuriatingly_ smug smile didn’t budge, and James angrily pulled him into a deep kiss.

               Time seemed to slow around them. Sherlock tasted just like he remembered; like midnight air and venom and antidote and _home,_ all at the same time. James slipped his tongue into the detective’s mouth, his heart swelling from the contact as warmth spread through his body. Sherlock pulled him in closer and James moved his hands from the detective’s collar to his hair, lacing his fingers through the familiar softness as Sherlock’s expression sobered against his mouth.

               _I hate you. I fucking hate you. Don’t you ever do that to me again._

_I love you._

_I love you too._

               James felt the wetness around his eyes before he realized he was crying. He kissed Sherlock deeper, inhaling the detective and wrapping his arms around him, feeling the lean muscle in his back. It wasn’t until a throat was cleared, giving him a bit of a start, that they broke apart. Still, the consultants only had eyes for each other.

               “Please,” James breathed, “ _Never_ leave me again.”

               Sherlock planted a quick kiss on the criminal’s lips.

               _I promise._

“Um, hello, yes,” John Watson’s voice made a slight blush creep onto the complexions of both consultants, “Still here, if you both were wondering. So if you’re going to start taking clothes off, at least give a little bit of warning…”

               James and Sherlock blushed even harder when they turned to see that John wasn’t alone. Sebastian, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper all were watching them with separate expressions of shock. Molly seemed mostly abashed, while Sebastion studied them with a look of almost fascination. Lestrade’s jaw was practically on the floor.

               “Sherlock, you _dog_!” the silver haired man was the first to speak, his initial shock starting to mirror Sebastian’s fascination, with a hint of his own good natured amusement, “I wish my wife snogged me that way!” he turned to John, “They’re almost cute together, don’t you think?” The doctor laughed.

               _She doesn’t snog him at all,_ the detective commented to James, ignoring everyone’s infatuation with the concept of their love, for fear he might blush, _They haven’t had sex in exactly six months. Notice how Greg has begun removing his ring every now and again…_

_You’re still in trouble._

Sherlock silently cursed, half wondering if he was about to face a situation similar to Greg’s.

               _I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, Sherlock._

James felt the detective take his hand and give it a squeeze.

               _Suppose I’ll need to be a bit more careful._

 _Not so much,_ James squeezed back, _that you get boring,_ he teased. Nothing with Sherlock could ever be truly boring.

               _I could never be boring._

_Aren’t you certain!_

_Because I’m always right,_ Sherlock smirked.

               The criminal frowned, studying his unusually colorful surroundings. Who the _hell_ had brought them all these flowers? The things had overtaken the bedside table and spread onto the floor and around the bed, engulfing the ordinarily drab hospital room in a world of color.

               Sherlock sneezed, “Is this a hospital or a bloody garden?” _We don’t know this many people._ He started to run off the names. _Petunias, daisies, carnations….that color is surely artificial…_

James silently agreed, forehead still creased in apparent contemplation, and turned to John, “Are these…” he shook his head in disbelief, “For us?” _Surely not…_

Shockingly, John nodded, “Yeah, actually. Magnussen’s standing with the public really took a hit overnight.”

               “Everyone he’s ever wronged is coming forward,” Molly, for once, spoke without hesitation, and John continued afterwards.

               “Yeah, you should see Kitty’s room.”

               “Do they know about us?” Sherlock suddenly demanded, incredibly alarmed.          

               Lestrade winced, giving a noncommittal hand gesture, and John simply shrugged, shaking his head.

               “Mycroft seems to have contained most of it; a few might have slipped through, though. Either way, seems they’re on your side. They don’t know enough not to be.”

               James gaped at John, “But…” he struggled to formulate words, “But we didn’t _do_ anything!” _Not anything moral, for that matter._

               The room fell silent, and the consultants assumed that everyone was considering the truth to this statement. That is, until Sebastian broke the silence, in a voice uncharacteristically quiet.

               “I don’t know,” he said softly, staring James straight in the eyes, “Feels like you did _something_.”

               James started to shake his head, and Sherlock snorted, “I abandoned James so that I could murd-”

               “ _Shh!_ ” John and Lestrade hissed simultaneously, and Sherlock balked, mildly offended.

               “Say that a little louder, why don’t you?” Greg cringed, though there was a hint of jest in his demeanor. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Surely if Mycroft could fix the mess they’d just created with Magnussen, he could fix a little slip of the tongue, as well.

               “I, um…” Sebastian coughed awkwardly, drawing all attention to himself once more, “I actually meant him.”      

               It took a moment for James to realize that the sniper was, in fact, speaking of him. The criminal’s forehead creased in confusion.

               “I’m…?”

               “You’ve done something.”

               James narrowed his eyes. What the hell did _Sebastian_ know that he didn’t?              

               “I agree.”

               The criminal’s eyes snapped to John Watson, as if betrayed. He opened his mouth to speak, but soon Molly was nodding and even Lestrade gave a shrug of acknowledgement, leaving him confused and unsure where to turn. As was usually the case in these situations, he turned to Sherlock, who was studying him intently, as if analyzing and concluding something.

               _What?_

_They’re right. You’ve done something._

_Well there’s no need to be unnecessarily cryptic!_ James was getting quite frustrated, _Spit it out!_

_You’re different._

James internally scoffed, _I’m exactly the same—_

_As when you shook my hand?_

Before James could deny it any further, memories flashed across his mind. A constant chill, inside and out, distance and desolation and a voice hoarse from disuse. Anger and bitterness and fear and regret, rotting him out from the inside. Blood and silver running down ceramic tile. Lies that he didn’t love Sherlock. Lies that he was better off alone. Lies that dying was better than this.

               Oh.

               In spite of himself, James flushed, silently begging Sherlock to make a sarcastic comment to distract from this new revelation, but the detective made no move to relieve him.

               _And you still…?_

_Bloody hell, James. You’re still everything I loved. Just less Moriarty._

James’s heart caught in his throat, _And you loved me? Me?_

_The past tense is inaccurate._

_But you needed the high._

_I know what I want now._

James was very quickly becoming overwhelmed. He glanced at the four people sharing the room with them, and it felt like he was surrounded by dozens of people.

               _So they—?_

Sherlock pulled him into a kiss, silencing James’s worry once and for all. The criminal breathed the detective in, feeling his problems melt away as his fear was replaced with certainty; a certainty that this was right, that there wasn’t a catch this time. He was James Moriarty, and he was kissing someone just as brilliant as he was, and they were safe in a room full of people who wouldn’t hurt them. Sherlock’s hand was firm under his chin, tilting his face upwards, and James straightened up, burying his hands in the detective’s curls once more and deepening the kiss.

               Lestrade had to clear his throat three times before they broke apart, so that by the end of it, it sounded like the poor detective inspector was coughing up a lung. It was Sherlock’s turn to blush.

               James felt unusual, as if he was trying on his own skin for the first time. Perhaps he was a different person. The weight of the world was gone from his shoulders. More specifically, the weight of his world. His old world. He was an asteroid, finally caught in someone else’s gravity. And they were free. They were safe, and surrounded by…good people. Good people that suddenly didn’t seem so ordinary.

               Loved. That’s what the feeling was. Not unusual. Loved. And when love felt that good, there really was only one way to respond to it. James turned to Sherlock, blinking back tears, and a gleam of mischief showed in the detective’s eyes once more.

               “I love you,” the words left James’s mouth crisp and clear with absolute certainty. He didn’t even need a response to know that it was reciprocated, and so the criminal’s eyes glittered with mirth, knowing the response before he even got it.

               “I know.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               John’s voice still held a tinge of exasperation when they began preparing to leave, half an hour later.

               “He bloody hated that movie when I made him watch it,” he complained to James, who pursed his lips. Next to him, Sherlock frowned.

               _Never said I bloody hated it. I said that the science behind it made no sense. It’s a valid criticism. How on earth would every planet in the galaxy have an atmosphere suitable for human lungs? It’s completely—_

_Since when do you know a thing about astronomy?_

_Since you decided to pledge abstinence until I learned something._

_Seems that did the trick._

               “Mm, I believe he has potential. Perhaps I can knock a bit of culture into him,” James smiled coyly at Sherlock.

               _Oh, I’ll knock y—_

_Sherlock!_

               John gave James a hesitant grin, and the criminal studied it with new eyes, “Yeah, well, just so you know, I’ll be moving in with Mary downstairs. As much as I love the both of you, I still mind the noise at night.” The doctor shuddered.

               The mood grew a tad more somber at the mention of Mary, who hadn’t, along with Mycroft, been present earlier that morning. James opened his mouth to ask about her, but John spoke first.

               “She was with Kitty,” he said, “She seems pretty determined to have her revenge on Magnussen.”

               “Who?”              

               “Both of them.”

               James bit his lip, “John, you know I don’t in any way resent--”

               “No, I know,” John cut him off, “But she resents you, James, for what you did. Just because Magnussen is gone doesn’t mean everything is okay.”

               The criminal huffed, feeling Sherlock’s hand in his.

               “I know,” he conceded, “I know, and I’m not expecting anything from anyone. I expect I would be a bit presumptuous if I did.”

               John narrowed his eyes, slowly nodding.

               “She can hate me,” James continued, “But she needn’t fear me, I suppose. Do tell her that, won’t you?”       

               “If it seems a fit time. Do you know what you’re going to do, then? With the empire?”

               James paused, thinking back to previous conversations with Sherlock. The sacrifice of giving up the game, the peace of mind and the danger that came with no longer controlling crime. In the end, there had seemed one obvious solution.

               “The greatest trick the devil ever played,” James recited, “was convincing the world he didn’t exist. It’ll take years, but…” he looked at Sherlock, “I’ve done this much. Someone else can rise to the occasion after I’ve disappeared. And I do fully intend to leave no trace.”

               “Is that even possible?” John marveled.

               “Anything is possible, my dear Watson.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               After a brief conference with Sebastian, who was still headed to America in a few days, and who still couldn’t believe how much “like a _normal_ couple” they seemed, James and Sherlock sought out the one person the latter dreaded the most.

               Mycroft Holmes watched them approach with his usual smirk and arrogant demeanor. And as much as it made Sherlock’s blood boil to see his brother back to his unbearable self, he secretly preferred it to a Mycroft worried about Magnussen. At least this way, he could freely insult him and not feel badly about it.

               “Just look at you two,” Mycroft cooed, “It’s almost like you’re an ordinary couple.”

               James took Sherlock’s hand without a word or even much of a thought, and the detective flushed.

               _Oh, Sherlock…_ the criminal sighed silently.

               _Can’t help it._ He assumed that there would come a time when the fire James brought out in him calmed to a steady blaze rather than the living thing it was now; an inferno, white hot and sparking and uncontainable. Someday James’s love would start to feel like home instead of a new adventure, but for now, holding hands in front of Mycroft was enough to make him more than a bit bashful—not because of the act itself, but because of the naughty thoughts any contact with James always brought to him.

               Because he knew it would worsen the situation, the criminal lightly stroked the detective’s hand.

               _Christ, stop._

_Eager, are we?_

_Now is not the time._

_Oh, I think it’s a perfect time._

_Don’t make me tear my hand away._

James smirked, and decided to spare Sherlock the embarrassment of becoming aroused in front of his brother.

               “I assume you’ve been filled in on most of the current situation,” he stated, looking from one consultant to the other.

               “Yes,” James confirmed, forcing himself to say the second part, “But I don’t understand why people aren’t digging more. Why doesn’t anyone care about why we were there when Magnussen died?”

               “Take a look for yourself,” Mycroft handed James a cellphone, smiling somewhat slyly. On the screen was an article on the event, published two hours ago. Quickly, he and Sherlock skimmed the article. There was no mention of either of their names anywhere, or even the fact that they were present. James handed the phone back, confusion written everywhere on his face.

               “Kitty saw us,” he pointed out, frowning.

               “And?” Mycroft raised an eyebrow, and Sherlock huffed in impatience. He hated when anyone played dumb.

               “ _And_ ,” Sherlock snapped, “She saw us there. It was clear from our discussion last night that I repel her, so why would she spare me the exposure? She had no issue with giving me media trouble, before.”              

               _Maybe she realized she was wrong._ Jim felt an odd kinship to Kitty, in light of this theory.

               “She’s probably still afraid of James,” Mycroft drawled, “Whatever her motives, it doesn’t matter. She is not an immediate issue. The issue lies with what to do with your new…boyfriend,” the elder Holmes smiled on this last word, a positively saccharine expression.

               James hated this question, primarily because he knew what he wanted, and he knew just how difficult it would be to obtain.

               “I can distance myself from the empire on my own,” the criminal promised, “I don’t expect any help.”

               Sherlock squeezed his hand, and James remembered to exhale.

               “Oh, no, don’t be silly!” Mycroft waved him off with a chuckle, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes, “No,” he sobered, “If something slips my way then obviously I can clear it up. With our dealings in the past it shouldn’t be too controversial or difficult to keep hush hush. And since Sherlock _obviously_ is such a _wonderful_ influence on you…” he paused, suddenly dead serious, “But do not overlook the factor of safety.”

               James was surprised to hear such sentiment from Mycroft, the man who’d literally kidnapped and imprisoned his own younger brother.

               “Yes, of course,” the criminal nodded solemnly. Sherlock held back a smirk.

               “I worry about him,” Mycroft insisted, “ _constantly.”_

 _That makes two of us,_ James thought, giving Sherlock’s hand a squeeze and vowing never to let the detective slip through his fingers.

(o0o0o0o0)

               Sebastian was forcing the zipper on his suitcase shut when Jim knocked on his door. While seeing the criminal in anything other than a full Westwood suit used to feel like a rarity, the former sniper was already growing accustomed to the new routine of expensive sweaters and ruffled hair. The change made it easier to meet Jim’s eyes; they seemed warmer now, their intelligence less of a threat and more a fact.

               “Do you have a place to go when you get there?” Jim’s Irish drawl was something Sebastian was starting to enjoy; he almost wished he still hated his former boss. The last thing he needed right now was a reason to be sad about leaving.

               Sebastian nodded, back once more to struggling with his suitcase. Jim was leaning on the countertop, watching him with mild amusement. Finally, the zipper gave way, closing the bag shut, and the former sniper stood up and turned around.

               “I, uh,” he shrugged, bouncing on his heels, “I called my family.”

               Jim raised his eyebrows, “And?”

               “They were…surprised.”

               Jim waited.

               “My sister answered the phone,” Sebastian’s voice wavered, but he didn’t bother trying to fix it.

               Jim’s brow creased, as though he’d never before seen someone upset, and found it fascinating. He didn’t break Sebastian’s gaze.

               “Was she as,” his voice was suddenly much softer, “dull as you remembered?”

               For whatever reason, this question fucking got to Sebastian. It was as if all of the repressed pain of the past few years came rushing at him at once. Oh God. Fuck. Fucking shit. He was going to cry in front of Jim Moriarty. The waterworks were coming. Sebastian wished he could have at least tried to stop it, but before he’d known it, he’d let out a single sob, and had to stuff a fist in his mouth.

               “Oh, Christ…” Jim muttered, clearly unsure what to do.

               “No! No it’s,” Sebastian, horrifyingly, sniffed, “It was nice to talk to them all. Sorry for crying like a bitch.”

               Jim huffed a gentle laugh that didn’t match the sneer on his face, “How,” he shook his head in bewilderment, “How on _Earth_ you ever ended up in my employ, Sebastian…” He studied the sniper a moment before continuing, his expression softening, as he looked Seb up and down, “But I suppose I’m happy you did.”

               Now it was Sebastian’s turn to look confused. He was pretty sure that any job he’d done correctly for Jim at some point had been canceled out by another mistake he’d made.

               As if reading his mind, Jim continued, smiling with his eyes, “I suppose I would have been a bit more bored without you.”

               “Oh,” Sebastian scoffed, “Well as long as I’m good for something.”

               There was a long moment of silence, and then Jim held out his hand, glistening silver. Sebastian looked from the criminal’s face to his palm, surprised by the gesture of respect and…fondness?

               “Thank you, Sebastian,” Jim said, suddenly sounding much older than he looked.

               Sebastian gaped, “But…? Why…?”

               “Tolerance, Moran,” the criminal continued, voice steady and absolute, “You taught me tolerance.”

               Slowly, the former sniper took the hand offered him; it was cool and surprisingly soft. Sebastian remembered every terrible, very intolerant thing he’d ever thought around Jim. Suddenly, it seemed a relief to be leaving. To start over. Though he’d miss Molly. And he wished he’d known them all more. But…London was too grey for him, and he missed the green lawns and blue skies that American suburbia offered.

               He could have mentioned any one of these thoughts, but instead he settled for a simple “You’re welcome” before giving Jim’s hand a quick shake and letting it go.              

               “This isn’t for me,” Sebastian said abruptly, looking around him as though just now deciding crime wasn’t to his taste, like a bad choice of paint color. He hoisted his suitcase upright with ease, his gaze settling on Jim once more.

               “I know,” the criminal’s smile was tight lipped and bittersweet.

               Sebastian looked towards the door, “Tell the asshole I said bye.”

               Jim broke into a full on grin, “Of course.”

(o0o0o0o0)

               James tasted spring in the air when he went to find Sherlock, and upon meeting with the detective, noted that it had put an extra spring in his curls. It was almost as sweet on his tongue as Sherlock’s lips when they met his. Their kiss was light and chaste, though as usual, the detective’s thoughts were anything but sweet. When they pulled apart, both consultants found themselves studying their surroundings with brand new eyes. Christ. They actually were _alone._ Alone and _safe._ They were just another couple on the streets of London.

               Somehow, the notion was quite freeing. The world was expanding, no longer a cage. It was easy on the eyes and warm on the skin and soft to the touch. Perhaps that was what love did to a person; softened them around the edges without dulling their shine, bringing peace rather than mere excitement.

               “It’s going to rain,” James commented aloud, simply because he knew Sherlock had a fascination with his voice, and he might as well humor his interest.

               “Mmhm.” _I know._

They fell into silence for a moment, mental and vocal, studying their surroundings with a twin frowns.

               “It’s different,” Sherlock commented suddenly, earning him a confused look from James.

               “You mean-?”

               Sherlock turned towards his Soulmate with contemplative eyes, “It’s more than bigger. It’s the bloody glasses.”

               James’s lips quirked up into a half smile, “Glasses?”

               “The bloody red glasses John goes on about.”

               _Rose colored glasses, dearest._

_Do you understand…?_

James took a quick look through Sherlock’s thoughts, and he realized that he very much did. The game was exhilarating, fulfilling, and a perfect way to exercise and stretch the caged mind, but…they weren’t caged anymore. They could bounce thoughts off one another all day if they wanted. There was no need for release if they weren’t being strained in the first place, and it wasn’t as if the game didn’t bring any negative effects at all… With James distancing himself from crime, and the both of them feeling less like mental patients, they could actually find a bit of peace of mind. Sherlock loved his own work, but by God, that wasn’t the only thing he cared about. It never really had been, but it had taken James to show him that.

               “I do,” the criminal finally answered, dimly wondering if the humidity in the air was curling his hair at all.

               “’Bit,” Sherlock answered the unspoken question, and James, sighing contentedly, held out his hand for the detective, who took it just as a stray raindrop hit him on the nose. He huffed, slightly disgruntled as James pulled him away with amusement. However, after a few minutes of walking, their steps slowed, and the criminal turned to look up at the only rooftop in London whose grey stood out from the rest.

               Sherlock smirked. _Good God. Tell me you don’t want to kiss up there._

James balked. He hadn’t been thinking of anything like that; at least, not seriously. Now that he considered it, he supposed it would be a perfect ending to the game. A passionate kiss right where it had all started, perhaps they would make love as the first rains of spring cooled their skin, Sherl reciting the names of every constellation James had so much as mentioned in his presence…

               The two of them stood in silence as more raindrops started to fall, cooling the slight blush coloring Sherlock’s skin and forcing their eyes to squint as they considered the roof.            

               _Oh, but our clothes would get soaked,_ James decided. Tea at 221B sounded a bit more inviting. That was the most important rooftop in London now, and unlike the hospital, kept something James cared about underneath it.

               Sherlock nodded. _Fair enough. And if Kitty somehow got to it…_

 _Mycroft would have a field day,_ Jim finished, cringing. Oh, yes. Tea sounded more appealing than cinematic rooftop sex. For today.

               “You have an umbrella?” Sherlock inquired, actually almost concerned about the answer. Rain was falling faster now, and they were far from home. As much as James liked to believe that Kitty Riley cared more about destroying Magnussen than their love life, it still was likely a good idea to keep their heads down for a week or so. Which meant avoiding cabs, at least on the day after Magnussen died.

               James smiled sheepishly. _Yikes._

Sherlock rolled his eyes, unbuttoning his coat in a hurry as raindrops peppered the pavement around them. He shrugged out of one sleeve and threw that side of it over the top of James, who enjoyed the way Sherlock’s familiar smell mingled with the petrichor in the air.

               _Shut up and start walking. This is wool, so if it gets soaked through—_

_It would have to be hung up to dry. Oh dear._

_Imagine it was Westwood and walk faster._

_Ooh, that a threat?_

_Possibly._

_I’m quaking in my loafers—HEY!_

Sherlock tore the coat from James’s grip, exposing him to the downpour currently assaulting London.

               _Apologies,_ the detective teased a now soaking wet James, _I hadn’t noticed it had started to rain so much harder…oh, was that thunder?_

_SHERLOCK._

The detective snorted, dissolving into giggles. James crossed his arms, completely pokerfaced as rain continued to soak him through. This was not without effort, however, as Sherlock’s laughter was like a feather in his ribcage.

               _I’m waiting._

“Your _face_ …” Sherlock giggled, and James cocked an eyebrow, accidentally letting a smirk slip through. Upon seeing this, a victorious Sherlock offered half the coat once more, and James grinned as he snatched the entire thing for himself.

               The detective was more than content to walk the rest of the way in the rain.


	39. Epilogue

***Eight Years Later***

               “And that is the difference between umbra and penumbra.”

               The clock changed to precisely eleven o clock, and a room full of students exhaled wearily. Moriarty was renowned as the most difficult professor in the university, and he always managed to keep everyone busy right up until the end of class. James twirled a meter stick playfully, watching everyone pack up their things as he silently teased Sherlock. The doofus refused to believe that Pluto’s status as a planet, once more, had been changed.

               _This is ridiculous, people need to make up their bloody minds,_ Sherlock complained.

               _Sounds like someone’s bitter they have nine names to remember once more._

_It was confirmed a dwarf planet years ago!_

_Looks like someone had another theory._

The mention of theories reminded James of the fun that was to come next week, “And remember,” he called out to the now noisy room, “I want your thesis papers next time we meet. If you’re going to lie about why you don’t have it, make sure it’s at least a good fib.”

               The former criminal grinned at the bitter murmurs this statement prompted, though he appreciated the identical smirks of the hardworkers a bit more. It was a crisp, October day, and the curriculum hadn’t even started to get difficult yet, but it was already becoming clear who was going to excel and who was going to struggle. One particularly problematic student approached James, who very nearly let slip an anticipatory smirk, thanks to Sherlock’s snickers back at 221B. The detective found it very amusing when James had to deal with morons of any sort.

               “Professor, I know what you’re thinking,” he held up his hands as though to console James, who continued to play with the meter stick.

               _You’re thinking about how much fun it will be to laugh together at the poor excuse for a thesis he turns in,_ Sherlock scoffed, _Idiot doesn’t have the slightest clue._

 _If he turns it in at all,_ James pointed out.

               _Christ, you’re right. Don’t be too harsh on him. I could use a laugh._

_You’re too much._

James’s smile was soft and distant, and the poor student seemed to think it was encouragement.

               “Anyway, I’ve sort of landed this new job, and-”

               “What happened to the old one?” James interrupted.

               “I, uh, I quit.”

               “Coffee shop not for you?” James inquired.

               “Nah, not really,” the poor thing looked relieved his professor was buying into it.

               “Didn’t you tell me you worked in a sandwich shop?” James stopped twirling the meter stick to watch all the blood drain from his student’s face.

               “Uh, well, we also sold coffee so I assumed-”

               James held up a hand, and the frantic explanation was stopped midsentence to be replaced with a pregnant silence.

               “Mr. Kendall, if the day comes when you can come up with a lie good enough to fool me, you may be intelligent enough to actually write your thesis paper.”

               “So, I should…lie better?” Kendall asked tentatively, and Sherlock was doubled over with laughter back at 221B. James closed his eyes, gathering his bearings not out of frustration, but because if he wasn’t careful, Sherlock’s mirth would put him in the exact same state as the detective. The Bond was good for many things, but it did tend to give Sherlock an inappropriate amount of opportunity to…distract James while he was teaching.

               “No, Mr. Kendall, you should stop wasting your time on lying to me and yourself and start working on your paper.”

               “How did you know I haven’t star-”

               The expression on James’s face was enough to silence Kendall, who quietly thanked James and left the professor in a silent classroom, wondering if he was going to continue like this the entire school year. The beauty of being at a small, lesser known university was that there tended to be a higher population of divergent thinkers; more “weird” kids and therefore more kids James liked, but there also were a good number of people who thought that smaller schools were by default easier, and therefore students to make his and Sherlock’s monthly paper roasting more entertaining.

               James sighed with a pleasant sort of tiredness, throwing himself down into his chair and watching dust particles floating in the light filtering through the window.

               _Molly’s gotten me some intestines,_ Sherlock chatted.

               _What will you use them for?_

Sherlock proceeded to explain the experiment he had planned, and was halfway through explaining the significance of his hypothesis when a head poked through the classroom doorway, causing James to sit up with surprise. Sherlock continued to explain the importance of a pliable small intestine as James motioned for her to come in.

               “Ms. Moran,” James regarded his favorite student warmly. Emily Moran always tended to put off the rest of the ‘intellectuals’ in the class with her brightly lacquered nails and her curled blonde hair. The professor wondered how many of his students knew she had the second highest grade in the class. The only reason she didn’t have the highest was, James suspected, because she got so into so many of her own projects that her classwork often fell to the wayside.

               “I wasn’t sure if you’d be here,” she looked around, as if still surprised to see the classroom so empty.

               James shrugged, “It’s an unloved classroom.” Secretly, he and Sherlock theorized this was because none of the other professors could comprehend James’s faded, experimental equations that tended to linger after he’d erased the aging chalkboard. “What can I do for you?”

               “I wanted to ask if you’d mind reading my thesis,” she started, but James had already taken the paper from her hands and was reading it over with a furrowed brow, “I like it, but I’m not sure if it-”

               James looked up at her intensely.

               “…fits the assignment,” she trailed off, studying her professor’s face, but unable to get a clear reading, “What do you think?” she inquired.

               _It’s complex, as usual,_ Sherlock commented, and James silently agreed.

               “Insightful as usual,” the professor turned his eyes back to the paper, extending upon Sherlock’s comment, “Impressive, as usual. But it does not-”

               “--fit the assignment,” with a daring roll of her eyes, Emily took the paper from James’s hands and began trudging away towards the door. The professor watched her go for a moment, shaking his head in amazement.       

               _You truly think she can handle it?_ Sherlock was slightly doubtful, but James didn’t have the slightest insecurity about his choice in heir.

               _I am certain._

_Suit yourself._

_I’m not surprised Sebastian thought she was shallow. She dresses the part; of course someone like him would assume she was stupid._

_Sure your class isn’t just too easy?_

_You’re just bitter that I’m handing your old favorite amusement to a woman that wears Juicy Couture._

_I’m bitter that in no time we’ll be playing Bingo to pass the time._

_You’re just bitter we’re getting old._

_I found a grey hair yesterday._

_Shall I alert the press?_

_God no, they’ve had enough Holmes scandals for a while after the aquarium incident._

James resisted the urge to chuckle at _that_ memory.

               “Ms. Moran?” the professor called out, and the blonde spun to face him, “Does my class bore you?”

               She hesitated, and James grinned, standing up. She visibly shrunk back, and he held up a hand.

               “No, no, you’re not in trouble. I know you’re bored.” _So bored you need a distraction._

A part of James felt quite guilty for doing this; for burdening someone so young with something so all-consuming as the Web. But then again, he’d been quite young when he’d started…younger than her, that’s for certain, though it all was quite a blur. He supposed whatever she found would at least be more satisfying than the mundane life of a physics teacher.

               Strange, that his situation was now the exact opposite.

               Her eyes shone with a strange recognition, behind their expensive mascara.

               “…I am bored. But not-”

               “In the way that ordinary people get bored?” James finished, and her mouth fell open a bit, her eyes growing wide.

               “ _Yes,_ ” she breathed, clearly not used to people understanding this particular predicament, “I get so terribly frustrated with it all that I think I might scream. And I see the way they look at me; the airheaded American. Sometimes I just wish there was a way I could really be challenged, and appreciated for what I could actually do. I’d pay millions to see the looks on their faces…”

               James was disturbed by how familiar her hunger was, even after all these years.

               “What if I could offer you,” he leaned forward, “a solution?”

(o0o0o0o0)

               A short conversation was followed by James pressing an old cell phone into her palm. His own hands were becoming worn, and starting to develop hints of arthritis, but the same Mark of his love for Sherlock shone just as brilliantly against his skin, a gathering of stardust.

               “This is all I can give you,” he warned, “This is the last of it. The very last. I cannot help you with anything you get into.”

               She nodded solemnly, “I’ll be smart about it,” after a brief pause, she cocked her head to the side, “How do you know I won’t…?”

               James snorted, “Ms. Moran, _surely_ you don’t think I would hand you this without taking precautions against that!”

               _Such as shagging the younger brother of the British government._

_Yes, that helps._

“And,” James added thoughtfully, “I know you won’t.”

               “How do you know?” she smirked, and James mirrored the expression.

               “You are me.”

               She declined to comment on the cryptic confession, perhaps for the first time in a long time, confused.           

               “Good luck,” James decided it was an appropriate time to dismiss her; he wasn’t certain he could stand to look at such a mirror of his past self for much longer, “I hope you find what you’re looking for. Oh, and I’m terribly sorry to say, but I’ve had you moved to another professor’s class. You won’t need my extra work with what comes with that,” he nodded to the phone.

               Her brow furrowed, “Will it come as I go?”

               The professor smiled sadly, “You’re a smart girl, you’ll figure it out. Napoleon.”

               “Actually,” she laughed, and it was a breathy, regal sound, “I prefer Cleopatra.”

               Like that, she turned to leave, giving him a mysterious nod accented with a glimmer in her eye and the rhinestones on the back of her sweater.

               “And Ms. Moran?” James called out to her one last time.

               She turned around expectantly.

               “Do tell your brother I said hello. It’s been far too long.”

               He was answered with a nod and a surprisingly carnivorous smile, and then the Cleopatra of Crime was gone, with nations to fell and crowns to steal. James stared at the doorway for several moments before the magnitude of what he’d just done hit him.

               It was over. All of it was over. Slowly the old articles would be lost to time, and Mycroft would need to intervene less and less. He was Professor James Moriarty, Soulmate of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and he was free from the massive web he’d created. After all these years. The first thing he would do, he decided, was exhale. So he did.

               James breathed out the massive weight on his shoulders, and it felt like he was tasting oxygen for the first time in his life. He could write that book, now. He and Sherlock could live their lives together safely, share Christmas dinners with the Watsons, fall asleep next to open windows on summer days…the world was theirs.

               The former criminal packed up his things and slung them over his shoulder, off to teach his next class in a half hour, probably with Sherlock silently interjecting comments every five minutes. He couldn’t have been happier.

(o0o0o0o0)

               James never did see much of Emily Moran after that. There were a few times he spotted her on campus, usually deep in thought or typing furiously or both, but she stayed until graduation, so he didn’t have the faintest doubt that she was ruling the web like a queen. He never had a formal goodbye with her, but he saw it in the glint of her eye, whenever he managed to catch it. A silent thank you that he didn’t fully think he deserved. Sherlock insisted he not worry too much, that as much as James thought she was him, they were not the same, and that she was younger and spryer. Still, he hoped, at the very least, that one day she’d be able to find an heir as he had.

               Sebastian never contacted them after his initial departure. Even Molly heard not a word, and it was only after Sherlock got so curious he was almost indignant that they winded up tracking him down together. Apparently, the bastard was teaching social studies in California. God help him. But, in the pictures James and Sherlock saw, he looked happy—definitely the sort to get married at twenty eight and honeymoon in Hawaii and throw barbeques on an artificially greened lawn—but…happy. And James could respect that, as concerned as he was for the students. A part of him wondered if Emily would stay connected to Sebastian and the family, but a part of him also…didn’t care. The web wasn’t his anymore, and he had no problem with letting it go in favor of breathing.

               Life with Sherlock was…bliss, to be frank. But a large part of that was just because he was truly, deeply in love with the man. Whether they were arguing over a failed experiment or kissing in the middle of what was supposed to be a personal violin concert, the two always managed to find a way back to watching space documentaries in the dark. They learned what real sleep was, and finally started to understand how wonderful the sharing of dreams that came with a strong Bond could be.

               This isn’t to say they never got into trouble—domestic bliss can be a bit dull, when the wind is crisp and the sky is dark, but suffice to say that the amount of times Mycroft had to scold his younger brother from then on to the very end could be counted on two and a half hands.

               A miss Mary and John Watson were wed on a jolly summer day, in a (hideously painted, James thought) yellow hall, decorated with so many flowers that the consultants kept having flashbacks to a certain day in the hospital together. Mary received many congratulations not just on her new official union to what was already a family, but on her blooming career as a journalist. Kitty Riley, in particular, was just as eager to congratulate as she was to take credit, though perhaps she was a bit more eager to be introduced to a certain dark haired bridesmaid by the name of Janine…

               The food was adequate, and Molly and Greg Lestrade were discovered in a broom closet together by Mrs. Hudson (who, in her old age, nearly went into cardiac arrest), though with James present, the night went rather smoothly. He kept Sherlock from stumbling over his speech, and proved to be a more than exemplary dance partner when the time came. Though dancing in a crowd is only fun for so long, and eventually the consultant and the professor snuck out to dance and perhaps do other, more mischievous things, out under the stars where the sky could remind them of how small they were. So they spent that night as they did the rest of their lives, hand in hand, Marks tingling and serving as a constant reminder of who they were; the arch enemies who turned their hatred into a cosmic love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ (skip to bottom if you're lazy)
> 
> So this is it. The end of all things. Well, it's been fun, I've gotta say. This is over a year in the making and I'm really proud of myself that I've managed to create something I'm so...happy with? Maybe I'll cringe at it in a few years, but I think this is the best thing I've written to date. It's helped me work through a lot of things I'm dealing with, and I do hope it has helped you as well. We don't get enough healing fics.
> 
> I should probably mention that this is my last large fanfiction I'm writing. I have a number of novel ideas that I would like to start once I get to college this time next year, and before then I'd just like some time to work on little projects and catch up on my reading.
> 
> THIS BEING THE CASE: I would really and truly appreciate it if you guys would share this. If you liked it, tell your friends, post about it on Tumblr, etc. I'm very proud of this and I don't know, I don't think it's all so wrong to want people to talk about it?
> 
> So this is adios (for now--who knows, someday you might find a little reference to this little story in another storybook you open!). Please please leave me a last comment, final thoughts, check out the playlist at http://8tracks.com/plaguedbynargles/cosmic-love-1 and don't be quiet if you liked it! Tell people! Every new comment I get on any story, even after it's finished, makes my day and reminds me that I could be a great storyteller someday.
> 
> Thank you all for staying with me through this, and here's to hoping that you all get to experience your own cosmic love someday. Ciao. ^ _ ^


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